Tumblr Obsessed Girl

Ragnar wasn’t just bigger than you in age; he was bigger in every other way. He had always been that way. In your family’s eyes, he was more than an older brother. He was the perfect son they had never had before you.

You clearly remember the first time you realized how deep your connection to your father was. You were about six years old, running through the field near your house, chasing butterflies as your bare feet sank into the damp grass. When you came home, sweaty and leafy, you saw him there at the table next to your father. Your heads leaned forward, talking quietly as if they shared a secret that would never include you. Your small hands balled into fists, and you stood in the doorway, feeling like a stranger in your own home. 

“What are you doing standing there?” he had asked you, with an easy smile that lit up everyone’s eyes but your own. 

“I don’t like the way you talk to my father,” you told him with childlike sincerity that knew no filters. 

He laughed, a sound he had always hated because it was loud, as if the entire world could hear how much he enjoyed life. "And why not, little one? Is it yours and not mine?"

Your father laughed too, but you didn't. You looked down and crossed your arms, muttering something that even you didn't quite understand. At that moment, Ragnar had looked at you like someone would look at a child who barely understands the world, and that only increased your childish rage.

Over time, things didn't improve. Ragnar grew into a strong, cunning, and charismatic man. His exploits began to resonate beyond the borders of your small world, and while others celebrated him, you still felt overshadowed by his presence.

Sometimes, you tried to reason with yourself. It wasn't Ragnar's fault that your father adored him so much. It wasn't his fault that others looked at him with admiration. But those thoughts didn't ease the weight in your chest every time his name came up in family conversations, as if everything revolved around him.

There were days when you wished he would go away. That his ship would not return from the sea, that his laughter would stop filling the rooms, that his stories would become a thing of the past. And yet, there was a part of you that couldn’t deny that you were watching him intently. Like a wolf on the prowl, you memorized his every gesture, every word he said. 

One day, when you were ten, things reached their breaking point. Ragnar had returned from a long journey, and your father threw a banquet in his honor. The entire village gathered at your house, singing, drinking, and celebrating his return. You were at the back, in the darkest corner of the hall, watching as Ragnar moved through the crowd with the ease of someone who knew he belonged.

When you finally crossed paths with him, he gave you an amused look. “Why are you always so serious when you see me?”

“I’m not serious. I just don’t like you,” you blurted out without thinking.

He laughed, but it wasn’t as loud this time. There was something else in his expression, something you hadn’t seen before: curiosity. “Do you not like me because I’ve always been here, or because you think I don’t pay attention to you?”

The question left you silent, because you didn’t know how to respond. Ragnar always found a way to disarm you, even when you didn’t want to admit it.

“Maybe it’s not you who hates me,” he finally said, leaning in to look you in the eyes. “Maybe it’s you who doesn’t want to share your place in this world with me.”

Those words stuck in your mind, though at the time you didn’t know what to do with them. Because, as much as you hated to admit it, maybe he was right.

Over the years, you left behind the childish games and tantrums, but Ragnar remained a constant in your life. You no longer openly hated him, but you didn't seek him out either. You avoided him, always hiding behind the responsibilities of the house or the social gatherings that you so detested. But even from a distance, you felt his presence like a shadow that stretched over you, a force that you couldn't ignore. 

It was around your thirteenth birthday that you began to understand something that you didn't want to accept. Ragnar had returned from another of his trips, this time with the triumphant air of a man who had achieved something great. His face was covered in dust and sun, his eyes shining with that fire that seemed to ignite everyone around him. He entered your home as if he owned the place, with that laugh of his that always managed to put everyone in a good mood. Everyone except you, or at least that's what you forced yourself to believe. 

You watched him from the table, hidden behind a curtain of your hair, while he spoke to your father. Ragnar had this ability to capture everyone’s attention, as if words were something created just for him. He was charismatic, strong, and self-assured, and for the first time you noticed something that left you frozen: you didn’t look at him the way you look at a brother. 

The thought hit you like a bolt of lightning. All that time, all that anger you’d felt towards him, all the arguments and resentment, it hadn’t been because you wanted him to go away. You hadn’t hated Ragnar because he was your father’s favorite, or because he made you feel small next to him. You’d hated him because you liked him. 

The realization stunned you. You’d heard other girls in the village talk about what it was like to be attracted to a man, about how their hearts beat faster and their stomachs filled with nerves when they were around someone they liked. You’d always thought those things were ridiculous, that love was something you didn’t need or want. But now, you felt that same uneasiness in your chest whenever Ragnar was around. 

That night, you couldn't sleep. Images of him filled your mind: his laugh, the way his hair fell across his forehead, how his gaze seemed to pierce you every time it met yours. You felt caught between the desire to push him out of your life and the inability to imagine a world without him. 

The following days you tried harder than ever to avoid him. If you saw him coming, you would veer off on another path. If your father mentioned his name, you would quickly change the subject. But Ragnar didn't seem willing to ignore you. Every chance he got, he would look for you with his eyes, with that crooked smile that seemed to know more than he was willing to say. 

Some time later Ragnar had returned from the north with more than just stories of his travels. He returned with a woman at his side: Lagertha. The first time you saw her, you understood why he had chosen her. She was beautiful, with such a strong and determined presence that she seemed to fill the room without needing to say a word. She was not a simple peasant or any woman. She was a warrior, a shieldmaiden, someone worthy of accompanying a man like him.

And you hated her.

It wasn't because she was evil or cruel, because she wasn't. Lagertha, with her open smile and direct gaze, tried from the beginning to win your sympathy, but you refused point-blank. Every kind word she spoke to you crashed against the wall you had raised between you. You didn't want her friendship. You wanted nothing from her.

But what really tore you apart was Ragnar. He seemed different with Lagertha at his side, as if his world had become complete in a way you had never seen before. When he looked at her, there was something in his eyes that made you grit your teeth: affection. It wasn't the camaraderie she shared with your father or the teasing affection she sometimes gave you. It was something deeper, more real.

At first, you tried to ignore what you felt. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that what Ragnar did with his life wasn’t your problem. But the more time passed, the harder it was to contain the rage that was building up inside you.

You became a walking storm. Your words became sharper, your gestures more abrupt. Everything you did was tinged with an anger that you couldn’t explain to others, not even to yourself. When you crossed paths with Ragnar, you barely looked at him. And if he tried to talk to you, your answers were cold and distant.

“What’s wrong?” he asked you one day, after you completely ignored him during a conversation at the family table.

“What would happen to me?” you replied without looking at him, focusing on breaking off a piece of bread as if it were the most important thing in the world.

Ragnar wasn’t stupid. You knew that. He had always been shrewd, able to read people with an ease that was disturbing. But this time, he didn’t seem to quite understand you. He frowned, leaning towards you a little. “You’ve been in a bad mood since I got back. Is it because of Lagertha?”

The sound of her name on his lips made your stomach twist. You forced yourself to remain calm, though. You looked up, staring at him with a hardness you didn’t know you possessed. “So what if she is? I don’t like her. Is that enough for you?”

Ragnar arched an eyebrow, surprised by your bluntness. “She hasn’t done anything to you. Why does she bother you so much?”

“Because I do,” you snapped, bolting up from the table. “Because I didn’t have to bring her here, or marry her.”

He stared at you, and for a moment you thought he was going to insist. But instead, he leaned back against the back of his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t understand why this matters so much to you.”

“And you don’t need to understand it,” you blurted out before exiting the room, leaving your anger and unfinished words behind you.

After that, you avoided any prolonged interaction with him. If he was in a room, you found an excuse to leave. If he spoke to you, you responded in monosyllables or ignored him completely. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he affected you.

But there were times when you couldn’t help but see him, like when he walked beside Lagertha through the fields, his laughter mingling with hers as if they were the only ones who mattered in the world. On those occasions, you felt something inside you break a little more.

When you turned sixteen, the day was a cold, grey sky, as if even the gods shared the melancholy you felt inside. The village was busier than ever; Ragnar and Lagertha had just had their son, Bjorn, a little boy who had already stolen everyone's hearts with his loud cry and inquisitive look.

You received the news while helping your mother in the kitchen. A neighbor came in excitedly, her beaming smile lighting up the room. “A son has been born to Ragnar! A strong, healthy boy. They have named him Bjorn.”

You stood still for a moment, your hands still covered in flour. The air seemed to grow heavy, as if every word of that woman crushed you. Bjorn. Ragnar had a son.

You knew this moment would come. It was natural for a man like him to build a family, for his life to be filled with new bonds and responsibilities. But that certainty didn’t make it hurt any less.

That night, as the village celebrated the birth of the little boy, you stepped away from the crowd. Chants and laughter filled the air, but you couldn’t bear to be there, watching Ragnar and Lagertha receive everyone’s congratulations. Instead, you sat alone on the riverbank, watching the current carry away the fallen leaves.

It was then, in the pale moonlight, that something inside you changed. For years you had carried an unrequited love, a weight that had filled you with rage, sadness, and frustration. But now, thinking of Bjorn and the future Ragnar was building, you realized it was time to let it go.

It wasn't easy. It was like ripping out a part of yourself, a part that had been with you for as long as you could remember. But you knew you could no longer live trapped in that cycle of emotions. Ragnar wasn't yours, and he never would be. And that was okay.

You decided that if you wanted to find your place in the world, you had to free yourself from that weight. So you let it go, like the leaves falling into the river, allowing the current to carry them away to a place you couldn't follow.

Letting it go didn't mean forgetting it, though. Ragnar was still a part of your life, as he always had been. But now you saw him differently. He was no longer the man you wanted, but someone you had learned to respect from a distance.

He was still there when you needed him, though those occasions were becoming less frequent. You were no longer a child, and the world did not revolve around him as you had once felt it did. You were a woman now, and you were determined to forge your own path.

One afternoon, while you were working in the fields, Ragnar approached you. He was carrying Bjorn in his arms, and the boy looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and adoration that made you smile despite everything.

“Aren’t you coming to see the little one?” he asked you, with that smile of his that still managed to disarm you, although in a different way now.

You wiped the sweat from your forehead and walked towards them. Bjorn stared at you with his big blue eyes, so similar to his father’s. He extended a small hand towards you, and you couldn’t help but gently take it between your fingers.

“He’s strong,” you said, more to yourself than to Ragnar.

“Like his mother,” he replied with a soft laugh.

You looked at him, feeling a calmness you hadn’t known before. “And like his father.”

Ragnar watched you for a moment, as if trying to decipher something in your expression. But he didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

That was the last time you allowed the ghosts of your past love to visit you. From then on, you focused on yourself, on your own goals and dreams. Ragnar was still a part of your life, but no longer the axis of your thoughts.

A year later when you turned seventeen, your world began to expand in ways you had never imagined. Ragnar, always restless, had begun to embark on more frequent trips, exploring new lands and discovering unknown horizons. It was on one of those days, while he was planning his next expedition, that you decided to accompany him. It wasn’t something you thought about much; you simply felt it. You wanted something more, something far from the confines of the village you had called home all your life.

“Are you sure you want to come?” Ragnar asked you when you proposed, with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile. “The sea is not as kind as it seems.”

“As kind as you, I suppose,” you replied with a spark of humor that made him laugh. “I don’t mind. I want to go.”

And so it was that you found yourself on the ship, surrounded by men weathered by wind and water, the smell of salt filling your senses. At first, you didn’t know what to expect. The constant movement of the waves was disconcerting, and the sound of the wood creaking beneath your feet made you feel small and insignificant. But as the days passed, you began to understand why Ragnar loved these voyages so much. 

There was a freedom at sea that couldn’t be found anywhere else. There were no village expectations, no inquisitive glances, no questions about your future. On the ship, you were simply you, facing a world that stretched beyond the horizon. 

Ragnar taught you to navigate by the stars, pointing out constellations you’d never noticed before. “Look there,” he said one night, as the sky spread out like a black blanket studded with diamonds. “Those take us north.”

“And those others,” you added, pointing to a group of stars that seemed especially bright to you, “where do they take us?”

He looked at you with a calm smile. “Wherever you want to go.”

It was in those moments, amidst the vastness of the ocean, that you began to understand something about yourself. You had spent years feeling trapped, first by your emotions towards Ragnar, then by the weight of your own expectations. But here, far away from everything, you realized that freedom was not something anyone could give you; it was something you had to claim for yourself.

When you reached land, every place you discovered filled you with wonder. The villages you visited, the new faces, the unfamiliar languages… everything was a reminder of how big the world was and how small you were within it. But that smallness did not intimidate you. On the contrary, it inspired you.

Ragnar seemed to notice the change in you. Although he did not say it openly, his gestures made it clear. When she watched you interact with the villagers or explore the markets with eyes full of curiosity, there was something in her expression that almost seemed like… pride.

When you returned from travels, there was always a mix of relief and melancholy. Returning meant safety, the warmth of home, but also the return to routines and inevitable questions.

Lagertha, who you had learned to get along with better, always greeted you with a smile and a question she couldn’t seem to avoid: “Well? When are you going to marry one of the men?”

That question always made you feel uncomfortable. You knew it was common for you to be engaged at your age, but the thought of tying yourself down to someone had never been appealing to you. Not after everything you had felt for Ragnar. Not after having tasted the freedom that travel offered you.

“I haven’t found anyone worth it yet,” you always answered with a noncommittal smile, trying to downplay it.

Lagertha would often laugh at your answer, though she would insist. “You are beautiful and strong. There is no shortage of men in this village who would want you as a wife.”

You would simply shrug and change the subject. Although you could now see that Lagertha was not your enemy, you could not confess the truth to her either. You could not tell her that deep down, there was still a part of you that could not imagine being with anyone but Ragnar, though you knew that dream would never come true.

It was not long before you were once again embarking on another journey with Ragnar. This time, the destination was beyond anything you had ever imagined. There was talk of faraway lands, with riches and wonders that few had ever seen. The preparations were long and meticulous; the journey would be longer and more dangerous, but the excitement in the air was palpable.

“Are you sure you want to come?” Ragnar asked for the umpteenth time, as he adjusted the oars on the boat.

“What kind of question is that?” you replied with a defiant smile. “Of course I’m going.”

Ragnar nodded, though his eyes reflected more than just acceptance. It was a mix of pride and concern, but you didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

The first leg of the journey was exciting, as always. The wind filled the sails and the horizon stretched out before you like an endless promise. But as the days passed, the conditions began to change. The waters grew colder, the air heavier, and your strength began to fail.

At first it was a simple malaise that you tried to ignore. A slight fever, some weakness. But soon it became impossible to hide. Your body was exhausted, and every movement cost you more effort than you wanted to admit. Ragnar was the first to notice.

“You look pale,” he commented one night as you stood by the fire, trying to warm up from the cold sea.

“I’m fine,” you lied, your tone firmer than you felt.

But the next day, when you tried to get up to help row, your legs wouldn't respond. Ragnar caught up with you before you could fall to the ground.

"Enough!" he said, his tone so authoritative it brooked no reply. "You're not well. You need to rest."

You were placed on a makeshift bed inside the ship, and though you resisted at first, your body soon gave out. The fever rose, and the weakness became unbearable. You could barely open your eyes, and when you did, everything seemed to spin around you.

Ragnar remained by your side from that moment on, like a constant shadow. He barely ate or slept, always attentive to any change in your condition. His face, normally full of confidence and energy, was now marked with worry.

In the moments when you were conscious, you could hear Ragnar speaking softly. You couldn't always understand what he said, but his words were often directed at you.

“This is my fault,” he muttered one night, as he changed the damp cloth on your forehead. “I shouldn’t have let you come. I was selfish to think you could handle this. I always wanted you around… but I should never have put you in danger.”

You wanted to respond, to tell him that it wasn't his fault, that this trip had been your decision, but the words wouldn't come out. All you could do was weakly squeeze his hand when he took it, a gesture that seemed to give him minimal comfort.

Your illness lasted for weeks in those distant lands, an unknown place where every dawn seemed just as uncertain. No one knew exactly what had caused you such extreme weakness: the change in climate, the different food, or simply the exhaustion of the journey. The days passed in a mix of hope and worry, and although the others continued with their tasks of exploration and looting, Ragnar did not leave your side.

The fever slowly subsided, and your strength began to return. At first, getting out of bed was a triumph, a small step towards normality. But as the weeks turned into a month and a half, you found yourself trapped in a state of endless recovery. Ragnar did not let you do absolutely anything, which at first you were grateful for, but soon began to drive you crazy.

“You’re not ready yet,” Ragnar insisted every time you tried to get up to do more than walk a few steps.

“I’m better,” you protested one day, crossing your arms in frustration. “I can carry something, help around camp, train even.”

“No, you can’t,” he replied, his tone firm enough to shut down the conversation before it even began. “I don’t want to see you lifting anything heavier than that plate of food.”

The concern on his face was evident, and though you understood where he was coming from, you couldn’t help but feel annoyed. You weren’t used to someone limiting you like that, least of all Ragnar.

“You’re worse than any disease,” you murmured, your tone more playful than angry.

Ragnar smiled slightly, but didn’t relent. “You can hate me all you want, but you’re staying here. I’m not going to risk you relapsing.”

With Ragnar acting as a relentless guardian, your world shrank to the walls of the house where you were staying. It was a simple building, with wooden walls and a roof that barely protected you from the icy wind. Although you were grateful to have a place to shelter, the stillness made you feel useless.

You did small tasks: cleaning utensils, mending the clothes of the men traveling with you, and even cooking when you were allowed. But none of that filled the void you felt from not being able to participate in training or scouting. The lack of action weighed on you like an invisible burden, and though you tried to hide it, it was clear that you were not satisfied. 

Sometimes, as you worked in silence, you felt Ragnar's eyes on you. When you faced him, he would simply smile and look away, as if he wanted to reassure you that everything was okay. But that only made you more upset. 

There were days when you felt like a burden. Seeing the others return to camp with stories of what they had seen and done while you had barely stepped out into the yard was a constant reminder of what you had lost. You didn't want to admit it, but you felt weak, and that was something you had never handled well. 

Ragnar seemed to sense your emotions even when you said nothing. “Why are you so quiet?” he asked you one night, as you ate dinner in silence.

“I’m thinking,” you replied, not wanting to go into details.

“Thinking about what?”

You paused, unsure if you wanted to tell him the truth. Finally, you decided to be honest. “About how useless I feel here. Everyone is out there, exploring, fighting… and I’m here, mending clothes.”

Ragnar set his bowl aside and looked you straight in the eyes. “That doesn’t make you useless. You’re alive, aren’t you? That’s all that matters now.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” you replied, your tone bordering on resentment. “You’re out there, being who you are. I’m stuck here, being… nothing.”

Ragnar sighed, as if he understood your frustration more than you cared to admit. “Sometimes, surviving is the hardest thing we can do. But don’t think for a moment that you’re not important. I wouldn’t be here, wasting my time with you, if I thought that.”

His words, though well-intentioned, didn’t completely dispel your unease.

In those days you tried to convince yourself that it was all behind you. The childish love you once felt for Ragnar was a distant memory, a whim buried beneath the years of maturity and the reality of his life with Lagertha. You had spent enough time hating him, loving him, and finally letting him go, or so you told yourself. However, as the days passed in that small village, something began to change.

The way Ragnar looked at you was different. You weren’t entirely sure at first, but there was something in the intensity of his gaze, in how his eyes seemed to search yours for no apparent reason. It was like every time you moved around the house, even in the most mundane moments, he was watching, watching.

That invisible weight, that tension between the two of you that seemed to fill the air. Every time you were near him, you felt a warmth in your chest that you hadn’t experienced in a long time. You tried to ignore it, to convince yourself it was just your imagination, but it wasn’t that simple.

For his part, Ragnar was experiencing something he couldn’t explain. For years, he’d always seen you as the little girl who ran around the camp, the younger sister who looked down on him or argued with him about anything. He’d been by your side like an older brother, like a protector. But now… now he couldn’t help but see you differently.

He didn’t know when it had started exactly. Maybe it was when he realized how strong you’d been during your illness, fighting weakness with silent determination. Or maybe it was simply the fact that, by spending so much time together, he’d started to notice things he hadn’t seen before.

The way the sunlight lit up your hair as you moved near the window. The softness in your gestures as you worked on chores around the house, even if you did it in annoyance. The way your eyes sparkled when you were angry at him for not letting you do more.

Everything about you intrigued him.

One afternoon, as you stood alone in the yard trying to mend an old coat, Ragnar appeared. He didn’t say anything at first, just sat next to you, watching your fingers move with precision.

“Why are you always staring at me?” you finally asked, without looking at him.

Ragnar smiled, but didn’t answer right away. “And why are you always so attentive to what I do?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the blush that rose to your cheeks. “Because you’re impossible to ignore. You’re always there, like a shadow.”

“Maybe because I like being where you are,” he replied with a sincerity that took you by surprise.

You stopped, the thread in your hands hanging. His words weren’t brazen, but they weren’t innocent either. You looked at him, trying to read on his face if he was joking or if there was something more behind his words. What you saw in his eyes disarmed you: there was no trace of mockery, only a curiosity that seemed to dig deep inside you.

From that moment on, everything seemed to be charged with a new energy between you. Casual conversations were filled with awkward silences, as if both of you knew something was changing but neither of you wanted to admit it.

Ragnar couldn’t help but find excuses to spend time with you. He always had some reason to come over, whether it was to bring you some water, check on how you were feeling, or just sit quietly beside you. And you, despite your frustration, couldn’t help but feel more aware of his presence than ever.

One night, while the others slept, you stepped out into the courtyard to get some air. Ragnar appeared shortly after, as if he knew exactly where you were.

“You can’t sleep,” he said, more of a statement than a question.

You shook your head. “The air here is different. It’s hard to breathe sometimes.”

He nodded, coming close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body in the cold night. “Do you regret coming?”

“No,” you answered quickly, looking up at the stars. “Despite everything… I don’t regret it.”

Ragnar was silent for a moment, before saying, “Me neither.”

You turned to look at him, searching for some meaning in his words. But before you could ask, he had already looked away, as if he was afraid to say anything more.

The day after the conversation in the courtyard, you decided that you couldn't allow what you felt for Ragnar to take shape. If you allowed those feelings to grow, you would lose control over yourself, over your life, over your ability to decide. And worst of all, you would lose Ragnar in a way you didn't want to even imagine. So, for three whole days, you avoided him. 

You didn't look him in the eye more than necessary, you kept yourself busy with tasks that took you away from him, and you always looked for excuses not to be around. Every time Ragnar showed up at camp, you somehow slipped out of his reach, seeking to avoid the tension you knew existed between the two of you. 

But despite all your efforts, you couldn't deny that every time Ragnar looked at you, there was something in his eyes that overwhelmed you. The tension grew like a storm about to break. You knew he felt the same way too, and even though you tried not to admit it, the emotions were eating you up from the inside.

On the fourth day, confrontation was inevitable. Ragnar found you in the small tent where you were busy organizing the equipment. He closed the entrance behind him with a soft knock, and stared at you silently, knowing you had been avoiding him.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he said, his voice low and calm, as always, but this time with something more. An urgency.

You stared at him for a long moment before speaking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” His footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as he came closer, closing the distance between you. “Stop running away from what’s happening between us.”

You breathed quickened at the closeness, at the certainty in his voice. You knew he was just as caught up in this game as you were. But you couldn’t let this be real. You shouldn’t.

“You’re right,” you murmured, looking away. “But we can’t…”

“We can’t keep ignoring what we feel, can we?” Ragnar interrupted, leaning slightly towards you, searching your eyes.

The space between you shrank to inches, the electricity in the air palpable. You could hear your own heartbeat quickening, the heat of his body overwhelming you. And before you could stop him, Ragnar raised a hand and gently touched your cheek.

The contact ignited a spark that ran through your entire body. You couldn’t resist it any longer. Without thinking, you launched yourself at him, your lips meeting his in a fiery kiss. It was as if all the time of tension, of repressed desires, exploded in that single moment.

Ragnar responded immediately, his hands moving up your back, pulling you closer to him. Your hands tangled in his hair, as the kiss deepened, moving from something passionate to something more urgent, more desperate.

“I love you… I always have,” you managed to whisper between the kisses, unable to keep quiet what you had held in for so long. The words came out of you with the same intensity you had repressed those feelings with for years.

Ragnar didn't respond. He looked into your eyes, as if he wanted to make sure you had really said it. But he didn't say anything, he just kissed you again, harder, as if the answer was in the act, not the words.

The intensity of that kiss didn't go away. Instead, it intensified as his hands moved with an urgency you had never seen in him. There were no more barriers, only the desire to explore what had been dormant between you.

Ragnar took you firmly, guiding you towards the bed with gentle but determined movements. You didn't say anything, because you knew you didn't need to. Everything that had been left unsaid between the two of you was now expressed in a much more intimate and direct way.

That night, was the first time you spent in his bed. And he was the first man you had ever been with. You felt it in every touch, in every caress, in the way he knew you and wanted you with an intensity you had never experienced before. At that moment, Ragnar was not only the man you had secretly desired, but the only one you wanted to share your body and soul with.

When you finally rested, breathing intertwined, you said nothing. There was no need. There was no turning back, no way to deny what had grown between you and finally unleashed.

The night stretched between you like a blanket of calm after the storm. The two of you lay together, the softness of your breaths intertwined in the stillness of the bed. Despite the intensity of what had happened, something in your chest was still churning.

Ragnar, lying next to you, watched you with an intensity that overwhelmed you. His gaze was deep, as if he were trying to decipher something that had been hidden for a long time. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low, but with an unmistakable weight.

“You love me… Why didn’t you tell me before?”

The question left you speechless for a moment. You turned to look at him, and although his face was serene, his eyes reflected a mix of surprise and something else, something that seemed to be a request for explanations.

You knew you couldn’t hide it anymore, but how to respond? How to explain all the suffering and anguish you had felt loving someone who seemed unattainable?

“I didn’t say it because I knew you would never love me back,” you replied, your voice cracking, the pain of all those years of silence making a dent in your tone. “And besides… you have a family. Lagertha… your son…”

Ragnar looked at you in silence for a moment, as if he was processing your words. The seconds seemed eternal as his gaze softened, as if he too understood the weight of what you had just said.

“Don’t think about it,” he finally said, his tone filled with a firmness that left no room for doubt. “Let’s not think about what we can’t change.”

Before you could respond, Ragnar kissed you again. A deep kiss. In that kiss there was no room for doubt or fear.

The nights that followed were like a dream from which you didn’t want to wake up. Every night you spent in his bed, every night Ragnar adored you with an intensity that made you feel like you were the only woman in the world. In his eyes, you looked more beautiful than ever, and every word that came out of his mouth, every touch his hands offered, enveloped you in a feeling of ecstasy you had never known.

He treated you with a tenderness and fervor that overflowed from what you had imagined in your most secret dreams. His caresses were soft, but his kisses were ardent, as if he wanted to erase all the distance that had existed between you during all those years. You felt that you were finally seen, that Ragnar saw you, not as the girl who was once part of his life, but as the woman you were now. And, for the first time, you did not care what the future might bring.

However, that peace you had found in his closeness, that security that Ragnar seemed to give you, was shaken when the time of staying in distant lands came to an end. The journey home was long, tense, and for the first time, uncertainty settled over you.

Every day that passed, the question hung in the air, even if neither of you said it out loud: what will happen when we get home? You knew Ragnar had a family, and even though he told you not to think about it, you couldn't help it. Lagertha, his son and the one on the way, his life... it was all there, waiting for them. And what was left for you? What was left for what you had shared? The distance between the realities you faced became more and more evident as the journey progressed.

Despite everything, hope was still alive in your heart. Despite the doubts that haunted you, the constant question about what would happen when you returned home. 

Ragnar didn't talk much during the trip, and perhaps, in part, neither did you. You both knew there was something that needed to be resolved, something that couldn't be left hanging in the air. 

The wind blew hard, the waves of the sea crashed against the rocks, but as you approached the familiar shores, the weight of the unknown seemed to increase. You didn't know what you would do when you set foot in your home, nor how you would react to seeing Lagertha, nor what Ragnar would think of everything that had happened. 

Returning home was a heartbreaking contrast to the intense emotions of the trip. As soon as you arrived, the usual routine seemed to take its place as if time in distant lands had not happened. Lagertha had given birth to a girl while you were away, and Ragnar's joy for his new daughter filled the air. 

You stood by, watching from a distance. You went back home to your parents, trying to put a physical and emotional barrier between you and Ragnar. You thought that distance might help you forget, that staying away from him, from his family, might ease the weight of what you shared. 

You didn’t visit his home, not even when your parents mentioned his name. You tried to distract yourself with your own tasks, with the life you’d put on hold while you traveled. But, despite all your attempts, you couldn’t get him out of your mind. Every corner of your memory seemed to be permeated with his voice, his touch, the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing that mattered. 

And then, as if fate wanted to mock you, he appeared. Ragnar arrived at your house without warning, his laughter echoing from the living room as he spoke to your parents. You heard his voice before you saw him, and something inside you tensed. You knew you couldn't avoid him forever, but that encounter took you by surprise.

You decided to stay in your room, taking refuge in the distance you could still maintain. You figured that if you didn’t see him, it would be easier to ignore the reality of his presence, easier to remind yourself that you couldn’t keep feeding what you felt. 

But Ragnar wasn’t one to be ignored easily. As night fell and the house fell silent, you knew something was about to change. You felt his presence before he knocked on your door, before he peeked into the room with that look that always managed to disarm you. 

“Are you going to hide from me all night?” he asked quietly, closing the door behind him before you could answer. 

“I’m not hiding,” you replied, even though you both knew it was a lie. You didn’t look up from your hands, afraid that if you did, all the control you’d tried to build would crumble in an instant. 

Ragnar didn’t say anything. He walked over to where you were sitting and, with a calmness only he could project, knelt in front of you. His eyes searched yours, and when you finally looked at him, you felt all the weight of your will evaporate.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction.

“And yet, here I am,” he replied with a smile that only made things more complicated.

You didn’t know how it happened, but before you could stop him, his lips were on yours. It was a slow kiss, filled with an intensity you hadn’t forgotten. Everything you had tried to bury, all the distance you had tried to impose, crumbled in that instant.

“Ragnar…” you tried to speak, but he shook his head, silencing you with another kiss.

That night, you had him in your bed, and the weight of the forbidden made every moment even more intense. You tried to keep quiet, afraid someone might hear, but Ragnar seemed to be in no hurry, taking his time exploring every corner of your skin as if he wanted to memorize you.

Every caress, every whisper in your ear, made the outside world disappear. For a few hours, there were no wives or children, no families or responsibilities, just the two of you in that room, sharing something that couldn't be explained with words.

When the heat of the moment was behind you, your body intertwined with his. The silence in the room was deep, broken only by the sound of your breathing calming down. Ragnar wrapped one arm around you, pulling you towards him, while his other hand gently rested on your bare belly.

He began to trace slow, abstract movements on your stomach with the tips of his fingers, almost absentmindedly, as if his mind was somewhere else. You could feel the weight of his thoughts, though you couldn't guess what was going through his head.

“Once,” he began in a low, contemplative tone, “a witch told me I would have many children. More than I could count.”

His words, spoken with a mix of seriousness and curiosity, struck something deep within you. Even though he didn’t seem aware of the impact they might have, you felt a pang of sadness creep into your chest. You didn’t know exactly why; perhaps because those words were a reminder of the life he led, a life that didn’t include a future with you.

You swallowed, trying to contain the lump that formed in your throat, but it was useless. A silent tear rolled down your cheek, followed by another. You tried to turn your face away, you didn't want him to see you like that, you didn't want him to know how much those words had touched a wound you tried to ignore.

“What's wrong?” Ragnar asked, noticing your silence and the trembling in your breathing. He sat up slightly, turning to you with a worried expression. “Did I say something that hurt you?”

You shook your head, but your lips trembled. “It's not that... I just... I don't know.” The words escaped you; you couldn't explain this whirlwind of emotions that invaded you.

Ragnar took your face with both hands, wiping the tears with his thumb while looking at you with an intensity that disarmed you. “I didn't mean to make you feel bad. Never.”

His eyes, as blue as the clear sky, reflected a sincerity that hurt you even more. You wanted to tell him how you felt, but how to put into words something so complex? How to explain that it wasn’t his fault, but the weight of everything you shared, of everything that couldn’t be?

“I’m fine,” you finally managed to say, though your voice was a broken whisper. “I just… sometimes wonder how I fit into your life. Or if I do.”

Ragnar watched you in silence for a moment, and then pulled you into his chest, enveloping you in a warm, protective embrace. “Don’t think about it now,” he said softly, his voice echoing in his chest against your ear. “What we have here, now… that’s what matters. I don’t want you to cry for me. I don’t want this to hurt you.”

You clung to him, letting his warmth comfort you, though the questions in your mind remained unanswered. His words were a temporary balm, but they couldn’t undo the truth of the situation. Yet, at that moment, you decided to allow yourself to believe him, if only for that night. Because when you were in his arms, the world seemed a little less complicated, and that was enough to keep you going.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotions for you. You had tried to get back to the routine, to the normality that you so wanted to get back, but something inside you had changed. It wasn't just the guilt or the love you still felt for Ragnar, it was something deeper, something you hadn't faced until you started to notice the first signs.

At first, you ignored it. The constant tiredness, the nausea that hit you without warning, it could all be attributed to the wear and tear of the trip, or the stress you had accumulated. But you couldn't deny the truth for long. With each passing day, the signs became clearer, until you finally accepted what your body was trying to tell you: you were pregnant.

The revelation was a shock that left you breathless. You sat on the edge of your bed, trembling hands holding your belly as reality sank in. The life you carried inside was too big a secret to share, a secret that could change everything.

You couldn't tell your parents. Their disappointment would be an unbearable weight, and the scandal that could be unleashed if anyone else found out was something you weren't willing to face. You couldn't tell Ragnar either. He had a family. The last thing you wanted was to further complicate their life, or yours.

So you decided to keep it to yourself. He was yours, and yours alone.

Days turned into weeks, and you learned to hide the signs. When you felt sick, you found an excuse to get away. When tiredness got the better of you, you made sure no one noticed. But keeping the secret wasn't easy, especially when Ragnar was around.

There was something in his gaze that seemed to pierce through you, as if he could see past your attempts to hide the truth. Even though he didn't say anything, you knew he suspected something was bothering you. His questions were subtle, but constant, and every time you evaded them you felt the tension between you grow.

At night, when you lay alone, the weight of your decision crushed you. You wondered if you had done the right thing, if keeping the secret was really the best option. But every time you thought about what could happen if the truth came out, you convinced yourself that you had no other choice.

It was madness, a storm you couldn't control, but you had no choice but to face it alone.

The days continued to pass with a tension that seemed to cut off your air. Every glance from your parents, every conversation with Ragnar, was like walking on brittle ice. You knew you couldn't stay much longer. Not because you didn't want to, but because every moment prolonged the risk of your secret being discovered, and that wasn't something you could allow.

You hadn’t made the decision lightly. For days, you’d been turning it over in your mind, searching for options, wondering if there was any way to stay, to keep what you carried inside you safe without destroying everything else. But every path you imagined led to the same place: to chaos, to pain, and to a scandal that would affect not only you, but everyone around you.

You couldn’t allow that. And so, one night, as you sat alone in your room, you decided you had to leave.

The conversation with your parents was one of the hardest things you’d ever faced. You sat with them at the family table, your hands clenched in your lap to hide the shaking.

“I need to go,” you finally said, breaking the silence that seemed to weigh like a slab in the air.

Your parents looked at each other, confused. It was your mother who spoke first. “Leave? Where?”

“Away,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “I need some time to myself, to find my own way. I’ve been feeling… trapped.”

It wasn’t quite a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. Your parents seemed to hesitate, exchanging glances that clearly argued your request without the need for words.

“Does this have anything to do with Ragnar?” your father finally asked, his tone sterner.

Just hearing his name made your heart stop for a moment. But you shook your head. “No. This is something of mine, something I need to do.”

Your mother tried to convince you to stay. She told you about how dangerous it was to travel alone, how you’d always had a safe home with them. But you had already made up your mind. You listened to her in silence, letting her words flow over you like water over rock. When she was done, you simply repeated, “I have to.”

“If Ragnar knows you’re leaving…” your father began, but you cut him off with a gesture.

“He mustn’t know. I beg you. If he asks, tell him I left because I needed some space, but don’t tell him anything else.”

Your mother looked at you with concern, while your father frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the request. But eventually, they nodded. You gave them no other options.

You had planned everything in secret. You knew where you would go: a small settlement far from Kattegat, isolated enough to avoid questions. You had packed the few things you needed into a sack and prepared a horse to set out at dawn.

The night before your departure was the longest of your life. You were alone in your room, watching the shadows move on the walls as a storm of emotions raged within you. There was pain, sure, pain so deep it seemed to cut your soul in two. But there was also a strange sense of relief, as if you had finally taken control of your destiny.

You didn’t sleep that night. As the sun began to peek over the horizon, you got up, got dressed, and grabbed your things. Your parents bid you farewell in silence, though your mother couldn’t help but hug you tightly before you mounted your horse.

“Be careful,” she told you with tears in her eyes.

“I will be,” you promised, though you weren’t sure it was true.

As you left Kattegat behind you, you felt an emptiness in your chest that threatened to devour you. Each step of the horse seemed to take you further away from everything you knew, from everyone you loved, but also closer to a future that was now yours alone.

You knew this path would be difficult. You knew you would be alone, and that there would be times when you would question whether you had made the right decision. But you also knew you had no other choice. You had to protect your son, even if it meant sacrificing everything else.

The sea was a free land. Nobody could conquer it because there wasn’t anything valuable floating around. Perhaps at the bottom of the ocean, a treasure may lay, but no man had shown the desire to dive into the deep.

The screams of the innocents are loud enough to make you feel empathy for them. But Acacius had trained you to put a mask of neutrality when leading war.

Loving the most effective soldier of Rome was your little secret. He married the daughter of an old emperor and he fought to get her privileges and prevent her from danger.

Always the insane little girl running around the palace, rambling about plants, the stars, a dream of Rome in flames. It was enough to be secretly sent to a scribe's university in Egypt for some time.

Upon your return, not much had changed, only that your father, once lead of the council, then the wise of Rome had died. Consequently, your evil stepbrothers were crowned emperors. They named you a soldier and made sure you were at every battlefront, hoping for your death.

But your general trained you well, and with months of practice, you ended up tangled up with him on his sheets in Greece.

Adultery was considered a crime in Rome and you’d give the perfect reason to your brothers to burn you like a witch. Or worse, to send you to fight at the arena of the Colosseum.

But the people who accompanied you and Acacius overseas were loyal and couldn’t care less if you had an older man fucking you each night. They only cared about you being a good soldier on the battlefront and being a good princess in Rome.

With a couple of hours left to be home again, you had your wounds checked. Conquering Numidia was one of the last African cities to be marked by the Romans and your brothers desperately wanted to own it. Only a few burns scattered across your leg and your shoulder needed stitches were the price to pay.

The wooden floor creaked and the general turned around alert but as soon as he saw you, he seemed to calm down.

Your arms wrapped around him and he immediately had to lean and kiss you. His lips tasted like devotion, peace, and lust. Acacius always grabbed your hips first. Then he moved to your waist, only to end up caressing your cheeks as his lips kept marking you his.

“What did the doctor say?” asked Acacius as he gasped for air.

“Nothing to worry about…” You nodded at him and he turned his back to you again, looking at his open windows, to the sea.

“What about yours? How is the scar on your nose?”

“It’s fine. Could’ve been worse” You walked towards him, sensing he had bathed like you as well, his hair looked perfectly curly and you couldn’t help but smile.

You could stay looking at the horizon forever, just because he was by your side. The sound of the waves calmed your mind after another day of calamities brought by war.

“For those who chose the sea, greatness waits at the end of the rainbow,” you said smiley. But the general remained stood silent.

“Those are ludicrous tells, the truth is that even war has infected the sea as well.”

“Because we chose to fight, then yes, the sea is also an arena. But if we chose not to, the way will not depict war” his eyes kept looking at you, completely fixated and even threatening, like Acacius was trying to understand how much you were judging him.

“We do this because we don’t have any other choice, princess y/n,” Acacius said, finally turning to look at you.

“We could run away, to the south, the islands of the Tyrrhenian Sea are empty, nobody wants to live there” your voice trembling, nervous and waiting for his response. He stared at nothing, probably thinking. And that made you uneasy.

“I can’t leave Rome, I have to go back to…” he said coldly.

“Your wife….Right”

Silence. Even the sea seized the sound of the waves.

“Haven’t you told her?”

“What’s there to be told? I said this was only a thing of passion and lust” You bit your tongue at his harsh words.

“Was it? Would you say that all those nights you shared your past with me meant nothing, Marcus?”

There it was. His most personal name, that one nobody used. The general got closer to you, paying attention to your face. Princesses did not have scars, but you did. He wanted to say so much, but he couldn’t. You noticed how his fingers were about to trace the pink scar on your chin but he moved away.

“I was drunk most of the nights, doping the pain” Finally your eyes crystallized.

“Do you love Lucilla, General?” His steps stopped then turned around to face you one last time.

His eyes looked doubtful but soon landed on his feet.

“… I do love her” you nodded, holding the tears and bursting out of his room in anger.

“Of course you do”

Your disappointment was so evident that Acacius was able to look at your face reddening and tears falling freely. He could only sigh and go back to pack his things and get ready to arrive in Rome again.

If only you knew…

…

The crowds of Rome couldn’t stop screaming your name. It was “PRINCESS Y/N!” and “ACACIUS!” everywhere.

You were no hero, you just wanted a peaceful life in a free Rome with the man you loved. And you can feel his hand brushing yours while his left salutes the parade of people chanting both of your names. The truth is you have no purpose but to serve your brothers and pretend that is your life.

The twins always hated you. Their mother was a wealthy woman but yours was the emperor’s true love. The twins used to pull your hair and always picked poisonous berries to give you as a meal while being toddlers. It got worse as everyone noticed you were your father’s favorite. And with him gone, you were utterly alone in the world.

Your clumsy steps made you arrive later. There was no crown for you waiting like it had been for Acacius. Geta and Caracalla were talking to him. And when you noticed the sword in the general’s neck, your face went serious.

“Do not forget the privileges we’ve made for your wife” you heard Geta saying.

“Same benefits we’re making for your whores, frater” The twins turned to look at you, quickly releasing Acacius and going straight to you. Their golden armors were a mere matter of display. They could barely wield a sword. They were bad with the bow and arrow and their reflections were poor too. They were good with numbers and shapes, but that wasn’t much in the city they shaped. One full of segregation and violence.

“Dear, soror… you’re back…” you think Geta gets closer to hug you, but his hand has raised and he gives you a sharp slap across the cheek.

“Dazzling and with such a big mouth as always” he added while you looked down, your cold hand against the reddening skin and sending him the worst look you had.

“Leave the princess alone, emperor. We should be focusing on the games ahead. We brought many slaves that some of them could fit as gladiators” Acacius said, looking affectionately at you, with disguise.

Caracalla only laughs in your face and his monkey reaches you for some seconds, but your brother pulls him away quickly. You wonder how far his disease has spread. Before leaving Rome, he was completely against seeing a doctor.

“Acacius is right, Geta. Let’s focus on the games” the twins agreed but sure, they had to humiliate you one last time.

“Alright then. But the next time I see you, dear y/n… I don’t want to see your hair down freely. You look like a whore and not the princess of Rome” he whispered loud enough to make everyone hear. But finally, the twins were gone.

“Are you alright?” The general asked but you rolled your eyes.

“I don’t need your help, Acacius. I’ve dealt with Geta and Caracalla since the day I was born. Which was before we met you” he sighed, understanding you were still mad from your last conversation. He appreciated your free hair, long and healthy despite the fires you went through while in combat.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt. It’s enough they sent you to serve in the war when you should be here, safe from the horrors”

“Go home to your wife, Acacius. Your dinner will be cold…” you spit out with a bitter tone before walking away, disappearing through the walls of the palace.

…

Standing naked, dripping, and waiting for servants to dry you up, you stare at the dress hanging in your room. It had been months since you wore a dress, used to armor and tight braids, and the sensation of the fabric felt odd.

As a kid, you wished to befriend your servants, but they remained professional and apologetically brushed away your questions. Which made you feel even more lonely while they dressed you up; placing gold jewelry and rings with quartz, spraying perfume, and cleaning your teeth. Geta and Caracalla always stole the sweets from you as kids, you thanked them because instead, it was Caracalla who ended up with a decayed tooth and a gold one as a replacement.

“You’re ready, princess,” said one of the servants and you smiled at her as a thank you.

The whole time while you and your brothers awaited to arrive at the Colosseum, you ignored them. You sneaked away as soon as you arrived. Knowing the place like the palm of your hand, you took a secret passage, in hopes to go and tend your horse to delay the entertainment as long as you could.

Gladiator fights were of no interest to you. But the people loved it. Their ignorance made you understand why they hadn’t tried to throw your brothers from the thrones.

But being months away made you forgetful of the architecture of the Colosseum, forgetful enough to end up in the cells of gladiators. Looking perplexed, you gulped nervously. There were indeed many slaves brought.

Being the only woman there made you the center of attention. Even worse when you looked exactly like a princess would do.

“Princess y/n, What are you doing here?” Asked one of the high-rank soldiers, running towards you.

“I wanted to tend my horse. It was brought here by accident” you replied, eyes wandering through the cells, noticing the people inside them were full of new people, probably from Numidia. You wonder if they recognized you.

Your eyes met the ocean-blue ones of a man, he certainly recognized you as he looked at you with anger. You gulped once again, looking away from him. But his gaze had been so strong that you didn’t hear a servant come running from the end of the hallway.

“A TIGER ESCAPED! A TIGER ESCAPED! CLOSE THE DOORS!” he screamed and soon everyone went into panic mode. You didn’t have enough time to process what he said and do anything. You stood there confused for some seconds. The violent roars of the animal could be heard closer. You looked around trying to find a weapon.

“Stay behind me, princess,” said the same soldier but you didn’t trust him so you went to grab a bow and arrow. The prisoners yelled and quickly you understood they were having a private show. They hated you for being Roman, and they thought they would see you dying.

But you wouldn’t give them that satisfaction as much as you sympathized with them.

The tiger appeared, big and imposing. The animal was angry, visibly distressed, and ready to attack.

You had killed men, but an animal was different. There was no exact description of what to do. Just pure instinct. So you try to calm yourself before the tiger spots you and the soldier, who are the only ones that remain vulnerable. The guards closed the entrances as protocol, unbeknownst that you were there. And it had been too late to use the secret passage.

You felt the same man’s eyes on you and indeed, he looked carefully at you, probably wondering what would be your next move.

“PRINCESS, STAY AWAY!” The soldier screamed when the tiger came running towards you two.

The tiger jumped and threw the soldier, roaring as it tried to kill him. So you ran away in hopes of aiming at the eye of the animal to gain time. Your hands shaking and you could feel your legs get tangled up in the fabric of your dress. But your nervousness isn’t visible as your hands work on getting ready for the arrow. You don’t have time to calculate, the tiger has already bitten the soldier’s fingers.

You hit it very near the eye and the animal roared even louder, in pain. That’s when you spotted the sword the soldier had left behind, where you threw yourself to, as the tiger had tried to attack you again. The man with blue eyes pushed the sword towards you from inside the cell and you didn’t even look to thank him, you only grabbed the weapon and rolled to the right before the animal could scratch your face and kill you.

You heard the soldier cry out in pain but you couldn’t help him. Thinking you could end the beast chasing you, you failed, sinking the sword in the ribs of the animal. You felt a deep scratch in your arm and you cried out. Anger quickly builds up as you know you had to get out of there before everyone at the coliseum found out. The tiger roared one last time and before it could throw you to the sandy ground you grabbed another arrow and directly pierced the eye of the animal. Blood starts pouring and before the tiger can try to bite and break your neck, your hands end up in its mouth.

The fangs were dangerously digging into your hands and more blood started coming. Scarlet droplets fell all over your face and you didn’t care. You screamed in pain and pulled all the strength in your body to put the pressure on your arms and hands. The men inside the cells cheered and made you even more angered. Until you had torn open the tiger’s mouth, breaking its jaw and killing the animal.

Breathe….

Pushing the dead animal aside, you sighed, resting on the dirty floor for a couple of seconds before taking a long breath and standing up.

Every man inside each cell looked at you quietly. What’s there to say?

Five guards open the main entrance and look confused at the mess, then at you tending the heavily injured soldier.

“Bring a doctor,” you tell them and they nod without asking more questions. Only one comes to your side.

“The games are about to begin, princess. I must escort you back to where you should be” Trying to catch your breath, you nodded.

“Do not say a word about this mess” The guard only bowed his head in agreement.

The least you could do was to put some bandages around the bloody hand of the soldier. Then you cleaned yourself and noticed you were a mess.

Giving that soon-to-be gladiator one last look, you tried to thank him with your eyes for what he had done to help you. He understood, giving you a cold nod.

And as you walked towards the royal platea, you wondered if that was the slave your brothers mentioned. A poet…

“Oh heavens! What happened to you?” Asked Lucilla as soon as you tried to take a seat beside Geta. Then everyone turned to look at you in horror. You noticed Acacius looked worried and he couldn’t keep his eyes away from the blood in your dress and bandaged arm.

“An accident” you replied politely at the woman, not in the mood to face the wife of your ex-lover.

“You look horrible,” said Caracalla.

“It won’t; happen again, frater” you tiredly answered, sinking onto the chair, ignoring Acacius’ eyes on you.

Soon you are surprised to see the gladiator who helped you in the arena. You don’t face him when he ends up winning and he looks at you. But you do notice Lucilla’s behavior and quickly you have connected the dots.

What an odd coincidence…

…

This time, you checked the animals first, then you made sure nobody had seen you entering the cells, but you went where the mysterious gladiator of blue eyes rested.

“Barbarian, monkey eater, slave, gladiator…. Prince of Rome, How may I call you? Hanno or Lucius?” Soon you had him inches away from your face. At that moment, you had time to appreciate his features. He was handsome and looked pretty much like he belonged to Roman royalty. But his gaze was fueled by anger and pain.

“What do you want?”

“I know Lucilla came before me. She had been waiting for you ever since I can remember” he looked at you with cold eyes and unbothered. But you knew he was curious about you too.

“What do you care? You’re the princess, you support all of this” his anger was palpable, it was part of his way of fighting you had noticed.

“Who did you lose?” You asked.

“My wife” he replied after a little silence, you nodded apologetically. He didn’t believe you.

“My father was a friend of your grandfather, part of the council. Now I realize that when he was elected emperor, he started hunting you down. I’m sorry”

“You don’t. You joined their cause and you fight proudly on the battlefront. I saw you…” you chuckle sarcastically.

“The twins you met the other day are my half-brothers. And they have tried to kill me since I was born. They sent me to war as punishment, but Acacius trained me well enough to survive each battle”

“So what? Should I pity you?”

“No, please don’t. But I don’t support any of this. I want to be a free woman and be with the man I love but I don’t think I’ll live enough to make it happen” he seemed interested in your words but pretended he wasn’t. Either way, you kept talking.

“You can’t kill Acacius. He’s leading a rebellion against my brothers” he stood quiet, trying to taste the lies in your words. But you seemed very truthful.

“Interesting that you want his head when all I’ve wanted is his heart” Through the cell his eyes sparkled and looked tentatively at you, for some seconds you got too attached to them.

“What about Macrino?” The old man had been trying to gain your brother’s trust and you thought that was suspicious.

“Don’t trust him. Stop sharing any detail that could tell him what you want or fear”

“I don’t trust you either”

“You shouldn’t,” you said, a little smile unconsciously appearing on your face. And to your surprise, Lucius smiled too. There was something about you that he found lovely. You seemed honest, but he couldn’t trust you yet. So he cursed once you had left, you had him looking forward to meet you again.

…

Across the room runs a large table filled with food. A variety of fruits, bread, lamb, duck, pork, and lots of wine. Your hands float around the punch though, reminding you of the first time you tried Egyptian beer. You ended up drunk with Marcus Acacius, laughing on the sand and soon both ended up naked. You frown, trying to forget that messy night.

“You’ve been oddly quiet these past days,” said Lucilla appearing by your side, grabbing more fruits and placing them on her plate.

“I’ve been busy”

“Have you met Macrino?” She said pointing in disguise at the man who laughs with some senators and your brothers.

“He’s been around for some time. But I don’t like him” you confessed.

“I’ve also met his poet gladiator” you added, opting to not look at her eyes because she responded very shocked.

“What?”

“He wants to kill Acacius for the death of his late wife, avenge his homeland, etcétera etcétera. I told him not to because we plan to free the city. You can’t proceed with the nonsense of taking him out of the Colosseum. Your son can’t be the alibi to start a revolution, Lucilla” you said whispering. She gasped in shock, wondering how you knew already. All while you carefully watched if any of your brothers or that nosy man were looking. Not even Acacius was looking.

You sigh, shrugging and looking at the woman.

“As soon as he came out wielding that sword in the arena, your face said everything. Then just by hearing his mysterious backstory. It was obvious, Lucilla” She didn’t say anything else, so you continued.

“I shall repeat myself once again. You won’t encourage Acacius to get your boy out of the Colosseum.”

“Why not?” you chuckled at the woman.

She was very pretty, sweet and caring. No wonder why the general loved her.

“You and your husband were lucky that I found out one of your maids heard everything and was about to spill it”

“What did you do, y/n?” She asked tired, thinking destiny was so meticulous and how you had ended up in such a position to hear and stop the maid before chaos unleashed.

“Let’s say I granted her eternal silence,” you said, Lucilla sighed, understanding. And before she could thank you, you spoke again.

“Wait till Lucius is in the arena to save him. And stop looping Acacius into this madness, you’ll make him get killed” She understood everything by the way your eyes looked at her. It shocked her, but she remained calm as you left to sit at the table. Only a woman in love spoke with a mix of venom and sweetness like that.

Taking a seat beside the General, he turned to look at you.

“What were you talking about there with Lucilla?” He asked in a very low but deep tone.

“Just gossiping about Senator Brutus and his new wife…” he knew you were lying but tried to act normal.

“Princess y/n… How true are those rumors about you breaking the jaw of a tiger?” asked a scribe, making you look away from Acacius, Lucilla returned to the table and your brother was already laughing at you for something you couldn’t hear.

“Well… it’s true, domine.” The table burst into laughter. Only the general and his wife remained silent.

“You did what?” Asked Acacius looking at you in horror.

“A princess shouldn’t be in combat” added Macrino, making you set your eyes on him.

“Oh I am a princess but I’m also a soldier, domine. And I have to thank my brothers because they made me a woman capable of wielding more than one weapon by sending me to war” The twins stopped laughing. Geta sipped from his wine and returned to you.

“That’s true. While you were there getting battle scars, Caracalla and I focused on diplomacy, ensuring we gained more land” You want to laugh at his face. The council did that, not the twins.

“Did you ensure the poor were stable by cutting from the rich? Did you do the math to financially cover each branch Rome rules, Geta? Or did you and Caracalla just point at lands on a map to get like prizes?”

“y/n…” Acacius whispered your name, trying to make you stop. The tension has risen very quickly.

“You have one task, soror. To give us India. A woman shouldn’t even be speaking on the table” Caracalla said when you were about to stand up and burst out. Marcus grabbed your hand under the table.

And immediately calmed you down.

“I’m only saying you should wisely rule this great empire. Do not let it fall…”

Soon the chatting turned into drinking after the awkward moment. When most of the men were getting drunk you returned to the table, cautiously grabbing food again. When you looked up, you encountered the image of Acacius kissing Lucilla. And it made your blood boil.

In a thick piece of fabric, you placed bread, some fruits, cheeses, and a small piece of lamb.

“What are you doing?” you nearly screamed when you noticed Acacius standing by your side.

“I’m grabbing food”

“Isn’t it a little late to eat again?” He wasn’t judging you, he never would, but he was very curious.

You would start up a little fire after seeing the painful image of him kissing his wife.

“It’s not for me…” before he could ask you you sprinted away. His blood boiled too, his hand firmly grabbed your wrist to stop you.

“What are you playing?” He asked.

“Playing? I’m definitely not”

“Is this some kind of punishment for what I told you days ago?” You sighed.

“I didn’t mean to say it was nothing. But… you have to wait, y/n” Acacius whispered and you chuckled.

“I’ve waited long enough to realize you will always be trapped in a marriage with two different kinds of love. And Lucilla will never love you like you want because her heart will always beat for that gladiator whose name was carved from the Colosseum”

You had raised your voice, Lucilla was looking at you two, and everyone else was drunk. So you violently flinched away from the man, who looked at you with a mix of pain and rage.

You leave and he immediately sends a guard to follow you in disguise.

“We must talk,” Lucilla said to Acacius, taking his hand.

He nodded.

…

What did that man have that made you feel safe? He didn’t protest when you walked inside his cell. He didn’t demand you to go away. He quietly lets you inside, talk, and explain yourself.

Two visits filled with food from your dinners were enough to let him know you had no intention of killing him. Your curiosity must’ve been too big, his eyes too attractive, and an odd vibration that warmed your chest.

To be honest, you had no idea why you came back to him. You just felt something. And you hated to admit it.

“If the emperors have made your life so difficult, Why didn’t you leave?” Lucius asked. He had eaten everything you gave him and was sitting beside you on the dirty floor.

“Every time I tried to escape, I couldn’t make it far enough. So I stayed and accepted my fate. To serve them will keep me alive ” he nodded, finally understanding why you hadn’t revealed yourself against the evil emperors.

“You didn’t come down here just to talk”

“I didn’t. I- I guess I just want to believe you’ll do something greater than I have always tried. Everyone talks about your rage but I think you quite act like a prospect hero… with honor” you revealed and wanted to cut your thong like you did with that old maid. You hated oversharing. But instead, Lucius chuckled and you frowned confused, expecting him to talk.

“You reminded me of my wife…”

“How so?”

“She said similar things to you” Most unexpectedly, you blushed. Thankfully the darkness of the cell made it unnoticeable.

“I’m trying to find a way to get you out of here before your mother does something rushed”

“I was very harsh with her”

“How couldn’t you? I would have behaved the same way. But she loves you and she doesn’t want to let you go just when she found you” Lucius smiled once again, making you remain still, unsure of what to do next. Soon you realized the sun was very close to coming up again.

How many hours had you spent talking with the rightful Prince of Rome?

“I must go, Geta and Caracalla will know I spent the night away,” you said standing up, trying to clean the mess your dress had become.

“Will I see you again before that revolution happens?” You smiled, walking back near him.

He was tall, you had to completely raise your head to face him.

“The final day of the games is closer. I’ll bring you more food and I’ll try to see what will the next encounters look like”

“Thank you. I judged you too fast…” he said and you chuckled.

“You still have time to change your mind”

You didn’t notice when he closed the distance. Just when his face had been inches away from yours, you gasped.

But neither of you two protested, your lips touched his at the same time.

Tasting the wine you brought him made you feel intoxicated. No intrusive thoughts appeared while you kissed him.

You could only taste his passion, his need to take control. But all his hidden softness too. One of his hand caressed with softness your cheek and the other grasped your neck.

“Stay safe, Lucius,” you said as you moved away from him.

…

The whole day was lost because you spent it sleeping. Only when you woke up for dinner, did you learn you had missed the games of the day. But Lucius was alive at least. You dreamt of his kiss but when you woke up you had an odd sensation in your stomach. Confusion filled you and then… ache.

As you brushed your hair, you got lost looking at a red candle. It had been a present from your father some years ago. A red candle to be lit whenever you felt like you needed to feel love, he had said.

The wise emperor had wished to see his daughter with her true love. Just like had always wanted but couldn’t.

There was a broad shadow that you spotted through the mirror. It made you pull out a silver knife and point a the figure.

Soon the cape was removed and you sighed but also gasped shocked to see Acacius standing in the middle of your room.

“What are you doing here?” You asked worriedly, standing up and hurrying to close your windows.

“You had spent all these past nights in the Colosseum,” he said, sounding a little angered.

“Now you’re spying on me, Acacius?” He sighed exasperated.

“What are you doing with that gladiator?”

“What do you care?” You asked with defiance.

“He’s going to get you in trouble, princess y/n” Your eyes pierced his, but you decided to move away, leaning against the towers of your bed.

“He deserves more. And not only him, but every slave we brought and all those we left in ruins” you admitted, looking at the fire of the candle.

“They do, but it’s not our duty, at least not yet. We need to focus on the plan we have…” you wanted to roll your eyes and yell at him, his wife could’ve ruined everything and he was only paying attention to you.

Only paying attention to you?

“Stop going to see that man”

“His name is Hanno and I’ll visit whenever I desire” you spit out with bitterness and you knew he was angry. Acacius clenched his jaw and sighed once again. Under his cape rested his armor, his hair messy, and his scars fading.

“Why? Because he makes you feel things?”

You remained quiet. As simple as it was, his question took you by surprise.

“I-… I don’t know. I had no reason to go back to him, but I did it anyway”

“Oh heavens, y/n. Don’t you see that I’ve always told you to wait? Because I’m counting every golden coin I have to give you that house on the island you always point at. To leave Rome with you…”

It took you on a curve. You didn’t know what to say, only the tears wanted to be present.

His hands found your hips and his lips seek yours. Sometimes, while being overseas, you two would argue. And the only cure was to be silent and kiss after a day of ignoring each other.

This time feels different. You feel so confused.

His forehead softly bumped yours and you two stayed like that for some time.

“If you had those ideas to fulfill with me. Why do you remain married, Marcus?” He smiled.

“That’s different, satis. I was set to marry when you were very young. I just can’t undo it.”

“Why do I feel like you’re only doing this because you feel pressured?”

“It’s not like that”

“Either way you wouldn’t tell me that you love me. So it’s in vane…”

“BUT I DO LOVE YOU!”

You frowned, biting the inside of your cheek. For a moment you thought you could only hear how your heartbeats slowly thumped. What you wanted to hear for years had been delivered. It felt good, even right to hear it. And when you were about to believe it, something clicked.

“No, Marcus. You just realized you hate the idea of me falling in love with someone else. Even worse when it’s the son of your wife”

Without the strength to say anything else, you moved away. Your feet quickly dragged you out of your room, and then out of the palace.

You walked through the streets of Rome, seeing all the hunger, poverty, the lack of love from the government.

By midnight you arrived at the shore. The warm sand cured your bolting mind.

There was an imminent battle coming up. You had a place in the rebellion. And yet you had to be only thinking in two men. Who had made a mess of you in a matter of days.

You had nothing with any of them. It was just the causality of what they made you feel.

Lucius made you feel like the woman you would’ve been if you had escaped Rome years ago.

Acacius made you feel adored like the woman you turned into wasn’t as bad as you thought. He believed in you.

But it wasn’t enough. None of them were enough. Your mind was spiraling and you realized you were sobbing in the middle of the dark. You can hear and faintly distinguish the sea. You had cracked, like the fallen fruit every poet and philosopher always mentioned.

And even when you knew you had to only focus on the war, you still didn’t know what to do. You barely knew the men that had you losing it.

_________________________

Taglist: @stargirl-mayaa @willowpains @nicolebarnes

It had been an easy day in the fields. You were sprinkling seeds in the ditches that Hanno dug earlier. The chickens clucked at you from their pen, begging for a bit more food as if they hadn’t been fed a hearty amount of grain earlier. After you planted these, Hanno would place the earth back over it while you worked on your herb garden.

You were capable of doing the hard, manual labor. Growing up, you would always help your parents through the entire process of planting, but Hanno was insistent on keeping his precious wife away from the heavy work. Rather, he encouraged your herb collecting and training with some of the city healers. You were grateful for him, truly. Most men would sequester their wives in their homes and work them to their deaths from labor, both of earth and child. 

But Hanno was different. 

He taught you to read, speak, and write in Latin. He would easily switch between Numidian, Phoenician, and Latin until you could respond perfectly. When he took breaks from tilling, plowing, and managing the harder tasks with the animals, he sat next to you at your garden and asked about the different plants. He was never cruel, never struck you or screamed at you the way you had heard other wives whisper to one another. In fact, Hanno was exceedingly kind to you and to anyone he didn’t view as a threat.

Which is why you thought this was a nightmare at first.

The horns of war sounded and you stood up straight to watch as the beacons erupted with fire at the top of the wall. Fear seized your heart and you stood frozen, transfixed, by the flames that licked the sky. Smoke curled off the top of them and the smell burned at your nose. You might have stood there all day if it hadn’t been for Hanno rushing out of the small house to your side.

“Come,” your husband instructed you. “We must get ready.”

He grasped your arm gently and it snapped you out of your reverie. Swallowing down your panic, you followed him into the house and to the small trunk he had made to hold your armor. The two of you silently donned your gear and were nearly finished when Jugurtha came to your door.

“My lord,” you greeted him with a slight bow. The chieftain’s face betrayed nothing, but you could see the worry in his eyes. Hanno and Jugurtha would be in the heat of the battle, directly in the path of the oncoming Roman fury. Would the gods listen if you sent them a prayer now? It felt as though they had decided to abandon you.

“The healers are gathering at Taklit’s house.” Jugurtha looked at the two of you, a hidden regret in his gaze. “We will come retrieve you once we have claimed victory.”

“Yes, my lord.” Your voice had softened as you realized how quickly this was all happening.

“I will join you soon,” Hanno replied. Jugurtha nodded and left, his imposing figure leaving an empty space in the doorway and in your heart. Needing a distraction, you turned and focused your attention on securing Hanno’s armor. As your trembling fingers finished tightening his armor, his hand enfolded around yours and he drew your fingers up to his lips. Hanno placed a delicate kiss on the tips of each finger. You searched his face to memorize every last detail, from the crinkles beside his eyes to the slight curve of his lip. Only the gods knew how this battle would end and the anxiety felt like it was going to swallow you alive.

“We go as one,” he reminded you. “I will not lose you.”

“Nor I, you.” His lips ghosted over yours and you leaned up, capturing him in a searing kiss. You poured every ounce of your devotion, fear, and worry into the kiss and he took it all onto his broad shoulders, shielding you from this world. His hand fisted in your hair and he pulled you impossibly closer so he could sink the weight of his devotion into every fiber of your being.

The gods had granted you this man as your husband. Perhaps they had not abandoned you yet.

“Be brave, my Hanno,” you whispered once you broke apart. He pressed his brow to yours and you breathed him in. “Be strong and be brave. And come back to me.”

The warm metal of his betrothal ring pressed into the skin of your cheek as he cradled your face between his hands. He kissed your forehead, his lips warm against your clammy skin. You savored the ring, this physical reminder of his tie to you, and touched the one that rested on your hand as a reminder of your tie to him.

“I will see you soon, my love.”

How bittersweet endings are, you thought to yourself as the walls of the city were seized by Romans. Men and women fell left and right from the parapets and you knew there was no help you could give them once their bodies hit the ground. Instead, you watched in horror as Roman soldiers grew closer and closer to where you were stationed and awaiting the wounded. You could see Hanno at the top of the wall fighting for his very life and your heart beat wildly in your chest at the sight of so many men around him falling in battle. Would he be next?

A cry of pain nearby alerted you to someone needing help. One of your people had been caught within the crosshairs of an archer and you rushed out of the house to grab them and drag them to safety. The child, only a mere babe, shrieked in agony as you dove to cover his little body when another arrow went sailing over your head. Even over the din of war, you heard Hanno scream your name. 

A Roman soldier grabbed you by your hair and yanked you up off the ground, forcing your back to bend sharply and a shout to emerge from your lips. He drew his sword, placing it to your throat with the intention of drawing your blood, your life, out of you with one swift pull. Despite knowing it wouldn’t help, you shouted your status in Latin.

“Healer! I’m a healer!” Perhaps he would be merciful. Perhaps he would let you go. Your eyes sought out the top of the wall and you saw Hanno desperately fighting to get to you, but he was too far away. The blade knicked the soft skin of your throat.

Two things happened simultaneously. One, a general pointed at you from the crowd and yelled at his man to stop. Two, Hanno was shoved off the wall and into the sea, right where huge rocks clashed with the waves.

A scream escaped you. A wail. War makes widows, your mother had said. And here you were, one of them. 

The soldier removed his blade and forced you up to your feet, shoving you back in the direction of the house. You scrambled to scoop up the child in your arms. If you could not save your love, maybe you could at least save a mother from grief.

The child died in your arms by the time you stepped into the healer house.

Numidia fell. Rome claimed victory and dominion over the land. Hanno was dead.

You busied yourself with tending to the wounded in hopes that you wouldn’t think about the fact that you were now under Rome’s control, a widow, and possibly homeless. What would happen next? Would they let you retrieve his body? Or would they throw him into a pile and burn it all along with the city itself?

A shadow fell over you as you tended to one of your own. You looked up to find the general gazing down at you. All at once, you were filled with hot rage and the deepest sorrow. You stood quickly, your hand reaching for a stray knife on the ground but he merely raised a brow. Right. What skill do you have against a Roman general?

“You’re a healer,” he said, not as a question. “And you speak Latin. How?”

“How do I heal or how do I speak Latin?” you spat. He remained stoic and you narrowed your eyes in suspicion. You would never reveal Hanno’s secrets. Not even under the threat of death.

“My husband is-” You stopped yourself and swallowed hard. “Was a merchant. He taught me so I could help him sell.”

“But you are a healer.”

You shrugged. “We do what we must.”

He studied you carefully and then nodded at one of his soldiers. A sudden bolt of terror struck you. Was this your future? To be a general’s plaything? A concubine? Some kind of bed warmer until he got back to Rome and disposed of you into the nearest brothel?

No. You were the wife of Hanno, a kind man and a good soldier.

“If you expect me to lay with you, I ask that you let me slit my wrists first so that I can die knowing I never let you take more from me than you already have,” you hissed. The soldier went to unsheathe his sword, but the general raised a hand to stop him. He took in your figure and the way you trembled with rage and grief.

“I need a healer,” he explained. “For my men. I will not touch you, for I am a married man, and you are a widow.”

He turned to the soldier once again. “Place her in chains and then put her in my room. Do not lay a finger on her, nor let anyone else.”

What choice did you have? If you defied them, you would be dead. If you went with them, you would have a chance to avenge Hanno before you died. Either way, you would join your husband in the afterlife. Going meant you had a chance to drag another life with you on the journey.

You dropped the blade and let the soldier lead you to the ships, not daring to look at the mass of bodies being piled up on the sand. Tears blurred your vision as you were hauled onto the ship. The keening wails of mourners raised above the fractured walls and you watched as smoke started to envelope the city. Just this morning, you had been thinking about spring planting and now you were a Roman slave.

What fresh hell was this?

The soldier clamped the heavy irons onto your wrists, connecting them together, and then attached two to your feet as well, forcing you into a shuffle as he then moved further below deck to a room. He tossed a thin blanket onto the wooden floor and pointed at it. You needed no words to explain that it would be your new bed.

When the door shut behind him, you fell to your knees over the chamber pot and promptly threw up everything in your stomach. An agonized sob tore from your lungs and you grit your teeth to silence the wail that threatened to emerge. You beat your fists on the hard, unforgiving wooden floor and wept silent tears, rocking back and forth in time to the crests and waves of the wailing mourners outside. Your people were subjugated. Your home was destroyed.

Your Hanno was dead.

Oh Thisbe, you thought as hot tears coursed down your cheeks. I understand. I understand. I understand. If I cannot shoulder this burden, then let the gods strike me down so that I may join him in peace.

“Tell us a story!”

The voices of children bubbled up over the crowd and Hanno looked up from sharpening his sword to find a woman surrounded. The kids eagerly mobbed her, their little heads bobbing up and down as they pleaded for her to tell them a tale. A basket balanced precariously on her head, but she seemed as though there was no worry about it falling.

But the thing that Hanno noticed the most was that she was completely and utterly beautiful.

“Who is that?” Jugurtha smiled at the young soldier’s question. He saw the way the woman captured his gaze. He knew that look in his eyes.

Jugurtha said your name quietly and explained how your family used to live on the outskirts of the city so they could accommodate a larger farm, but recent skirmishes in the area had wounded your father and drew you behind the walls of the city. Hanno had met your father before and made a mental note to visit the man and see how he was healing. Perhaps he would bring some fresh fruits from the merchants.

Jugurtha must have caught onto his train of thought because he called you over. The gaggle of children followed closely behind and you laughed, a sound that Hanno delighted in hearing.

“Are you interested in a story too, my lord?” You said in greeting. Jugurtha grinned and gestured for you to sit.

“You’ve been hard at work. Take a moment to rest and tell the children a story.”

With careful hands, you reached up and lowered the basket to the ground. Hanno could see it was full of various types of plants and fabrics. He had a million questions swirling around in his head. What did you do to pass the time? Where were you staying? Did you like it here? He stayed silent, however, as you slowly lowered yourself onto the ground. Your dress pooled around your legs and the coins on your shawl clinked against each other. What would you look like bare? He banished the thought as soon as it appeared.

“Come.” You beckoned the children to sit around you and gathered one of the youngest into your lap. The child reached up and played with the ends of your veil and you smiled down at her before beginning your story.

“Long ago, there was a queen of Numidia by the name of Kahina. When invaders came to Numidia to conquer us, she stood strong and fought them off with all of her might. Kahina was brave and smart, using both her strength and her mind to push the invaders back.” You launched into a tale filled with drama, some comedy, and even a bit of romance that had the kids shouting and cheering with glee. Hanno even stopped cleaning his weapons to sit and listen. He was enraptured by the way you kept the kids engaged as you weave your tale. The child in your lap started to drift off and you didn’t even hesitate before drawing her closer into your arms and cradling her.

“Queen Kahina is a reminder to all of us,” you declared. “That each of us has the power to stand up for ourselves, to do what’s right, and to be proud of who we are.” You gazed out onto the sea of little heads bobbing their agreement and then looked up to lock gazes with Hanno. For a brief moment, it felt like everything in the world went still. He scarcely knew he was breathing until Jugurtha nudged him. You tore your gaze away and offered a brilliant smile to the children. Clapping your hands together, you shooed them back towards the gathering of homes.

“Your mothers are probably wondering where you’ve gone off to. Now, go home and do some chores to help her out.”

“Oh, but we want another story!” One boy cried out. You huffed out a laugh and shook your head, your veils moving like buttery silk across your skin.

“Only if you finish your chores for the day. I will ask your mother and you know I will. Now, off with you!”

The children dashed off, leaving you with the sleeping babe in your arms. You slowly started to rise, intent on not waking her, when Hanno spoke.

“Here, let me carry your basket.” He stood and took the wicker basket from the ground so you wouldn’t have to worry about carrying both child and items. You regarded him warily at first and Jugurtha had to hide his smile behind his hands.

Truth be told, you were one of the most desired women in the city. You were also one of the least trusting. Your mother desperately tried to set you up with suitor after suitor, but none met your standards. Your father laughed off your mother’s attempts and said that the gods would lead the right man to you. You were older than most women to be unmarried, but you remained steadfast in your belief that the right man would come someday.

And perhaps today was that day.

Jugurtha offered you a short nod to express his approval of Hanno and your suspicious expression melted somewhat. You turned and started to walk towards the village. When you realized that the handsome man with blue eyes wasn’t following, you glanced back at him.

“Are you coming or not?”

Hanno scrambled to catch up and quickly joined your steps, a smile cresting on his face as he asked you about how you were settling into the city.

Hanno cried when his mother sent him away. He sobbed when he fled his hiding place, cried on the boat crossing, and sniffled away into his sleep the first few days of living in Numidia. But he had never wept like he did when they tossed him into the hold of the ship with a Roman brand on his shoulder and a ring that felt infinitely heavy on his finger.

The last thing he saw before plunging into the sea was the blade sliding across your neck. Stuck between the two worlds of consciousness, he saw flickers of a wheatfield stretched before him and, for a moment, saw the outline of your body amongst the stalks. He reached out, his hand passing through where you stood, and then you disappeared from his grasp.

Coming to, he rushed from the sea and towards the city, but two Romans stopped him. He needed to find your body. He needed to see that you were buried properly. He was never as devoted to the gods as you were. You kept idols on the hearth and prayed regularly, but he only found himself turning to the gods at a time like this. But, right now, he found himself praying to Viduus, Libitina, and Proserpina.

Let her soul cross, Mercury. Bring her to the Fields of Elysium. Please. Tell her I will meet her on the other side.

He was forced to kneel next to Jugurtha, stripped of his armor and weapons, and watched as they loaded body after body into a pit. Jugurtha’s gaze never left the growing pile, even as he asked the question that Hanno dreaded.

“She’s gone,” he said, his throat raw from screaming your name across the battlefield. Did it hurt? He wondered. Was it instant? Did you feel pain? His sweet wife who dedicated her life to healing and helping died in such a brutal manner. His hands curled into fists as rage filled his veins. You were supposed to die at an old age, tucked in his arms and surrounded by your children. That’s what he planned that day so long ago when he walked you home, basket in his arms and a babe in yours. You dropped the child off with her mother and he refused to let you take your basket back, instead carrying it to your small house where he checked in on your father, met your mother, and charmed your whole family.

He craned his neck to see the dead lying a few feet away in hopes of catching a glimpse of any sign of you but there were too many dead. Too many lost. He saw the man he had bought silk from two days earlier. The midwife in the village. So many of the soldiers he had helped train.

Hanno glanced beside him and saw a fellow healer who was weeping openly. He leaned closer and asked if she knew anything about what happened to you.

“They took her,” she wailed. “They took her.”

Any grief that remained calcified into pure, hot rage. They took your body? For what sick purpose? To desecrate your corpse? To taint you with their hatred and their delusions of power, even when you were already dead? He started to rise, intent on seeking out your corpse and draping himself over it so that he would still be holding you when they killed him. Jugurtha stopped him with a shaking hand around his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” the leader lamented. “But not like this. This is not how you will die.”

Hanno’s eyes fixed on the man standing in front of the soldiers, in front of the keening mothers and children, in front of the men he had defeated and stripped of their armor to expose their humiliation. Hanno remembered the way he pointed directly at you, encouraging the soldier to keep the bloodshed continuing, and knew what Jugurtha meant.

He was going to kill him, and then he would reunite with you in the afterlife.

“Tell me a story,” Lulit encouraged as the two of you picked herbs from outside the city. The two of you rode out early this morning to gather herbs not grown in the village gardens. Lulit was with child and Jugurtha insisted on a guard coming with you and you glanced over at the man asleep at the base of the tree that the horses were tied to.

You paused for a moment to consider which tale you should tell. Recently, the only stories that came to mind were romances. Your face burned at the thought, but you knew why they were the only things that floated to your memory. A certain blue-eyed man had consumed every waking thought of yours and it was driving you mad.

He was a consummate gentleman and always found ways to visit your family. He started helping your father get his new trading business up and running in the city. He brought your mother fresh wheat to bake bread. He carved toys from wood and willow reeds for your siblings.

Hanno was the man of your dreams. He was exceedingly kind, handsome, and funny. He was sincere and wasn’t putting on some kind of face to impress you. He was just truly nice to everyone he met. You saw him once helping one of the elders bundle their wheat harvest and carry it into their house. Jugurtha had already come by and assured your parents of Hanno’s good nature.

He had started to teach you Latin and how to read and write Phoenician and Numidian. He told you stories from other empires and listened intently when you told him tales your grandmother had told you. The gods had indeed brought the right man, the perfect man. 

“Psyche was one of three daughters of a king and a queen of a far away land. She was renowned for her beauty and praised among the land as the second coming of the goddess of beauty. Her admirers would bring offerings and gifts to her, angering the goddess, who decided that Psyche must be punished.”

A thorn caught on your finger and you let out a hiss of pain as you brought your finger to your lips, sucking the blood away. You began to continue your work and your story when a horn trumpeted across the sky.

The sounds of war.

Your heart leapt into your throat and you immediately looked to Lulit. Her face had drained of color and she traded a worried glance with you. In the time you had lived here, the horns had never sounded.

“We need to move.” Despite being asleep moments earlier, Hanno was already leading the horses to the two of you.

“Who is it?” You knew better than to stall, especially when he wore such a serious expression. He helped you climb onto the back of your horse and paused for only a moment, one of his warm palms resting on your skirt-covered thigh.

“A small war party, by the looks of it. Nothing the defense can’t handle. But we need to get out of the way before they attack. There’s a forest just a few paces away, but we need to get moving.” He ensured that you and Lulit were secured before he climbed onto his own horse. Dust grew in the east and you felt your worry build with it. Hanno tugged at the reins of your horse, urging you to follow. You urged your horse into a gallop and kept close to him, but you still looked over your shoulder to gauge how close the marauders were.

“Hanno.” Your voice carried a warning and he looked back to see a rider closing in on them. He let out an expletive and pointed to the trees that were nearing with every step.

“Go! I’ll find you.” He slowed his horse and fell in line with you, his bright eyes meeting yours. “I swear to you.”

You swallowed against your rising panic and he sent you a reassuring smile before he turned his horse around and rode off in the direction of your pursuer. You looked back to watch as he drew his sword with expert ease.

Focus, you chastised yourself. You need to focus.

Lulit silently followed you as you led the way to the forest. Once the trees began to cloud your vision, you looked back and saw nothing but dirt and sky. He would be okay. He had to be.

Dismounting, you grabbed the reins of your horse and led her further into the forest until you came to a clearing with a good underbrush. You tied the horses and instructed Lulit to dig out some of the underbrush so she could lay down and rest while you brushed out the horses.

“Are we in danger?” she asked. Were you? You had no clue. But you set your shoulders and covered her with the blanket she kept on her saddle.

“Hanno would never let anything happen to us,” you told her. You settled down onto the soft grass next to her. “Let me continue my story. While Psyche’s sisters married, she found herself still unmarried and that worried her father who consulted a seer. The seer predicted an awful outcome for the beautiful daughter, one of a brutish husband in the form of a dragon who came to claim her and whom the gods feared. But truthfully, the goddess of beauty had been so enraged by the people’s devotion to Psyche that she sent her son to enchant her with a hideous creature, but instead found himself falling in love with her.”

Lulit curled up onto her side, cradling her growing belly with her hands as she listened raptly to your story. You spoke of the trials the lovers endured in their pursuit of one another, but as you began to wrap up the story, you found that she had drifted off to sleep.

A branch cracked nearby and you flinched. There was a small knife in your saddlebags that you used for foraging and silently, you crept over to your horse and retrieved it. The leaves rustled and you spun to face whatever beast dared to come close. You held your knife aloft and pointed it in the direction of where the noise was coming from. Oh, you were not brave. You were a farmer’s daughter and a healer. The most you knew with a knife was how to butcher an animal.

“You need to adjust your thumb to the other side,” Hanno said in greeting as he stepped through the forest and into the clearing. “It will give you better control.”

With a ragged sigh of relief, your shoulders fell from their tensed position and you dropped the knife onto the grass below. He stooped to catch it and studied the small blade with a hint of a smile. Droplets of blood stained his face and you carefully examined him for any sign of injuries.

“I am unharmed, my little warrior,” he teased. He rose and handed you the knife once more. “And I will make sure to teach you how to use that.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” He could easily be lying. Father always brushed off your mother’s worries so as to not incite her own anxieties. Hanno raised his arms from his sides and slowly turned so you could see that he was indeed unharmed. His sword hung from its scabbard and you could see that blood still lingered on its surface.

“Are we safe?”

His eyes darkened and he stepped closer, his hands hovering over your waist. He searched your face for something, you weren’t sure, but dipped his head into a nod. “Aye. I would never let anything happen to you. To you or Lulit.”

“Then rest, soldier. Let me clean your sword.”

He looked as if he wanted to argue, but determination furrowed your brows and Hanno reluctantly unstrapped his sword from his side and handed it to you. This was a task you had witnessed your mother perform before when your father took on anyone trying to attack the farm. Blood was not a foreign thing to you, even if Hanno appeared to want to protect you from it.

You took a rag from your saddle pack and sat down by a tree. Hanno joined you, his back against the bark and his eyes studying the treeline for any disturbance. Slowly and methodically, you ran the rag over his blade and ensured that every last drop of blood and gore was cleaned from it. He searched your face for any sign of fear. Fear of what? Of him? A man who so willingly charged into danger to protect you engendered no fear from you.

“There,” you declared. “Good as new.”

He gratefully accepted the blade from you and placed it back in his scabbard. The sun was starting to set and the glow between the trees created a halo of light around you. He reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair out of your face before curling his knuckles against your jaw and stroking his thumb over your cheek. You let your eyes flutter shut and leaned into his palm, savoring the rough drag of his calloused fingers against your soft skin.

You loved him. Oh, the thought made your heart race and you surged forward. He caught your waist in his calloused hands and let his lips meet yours in a breathless kiss. Hanno groaned against your touch and you pulled away, thinking he was hurt with some injury you hadn’t seen, but he merely cupped your face and pulled you back in so he could nip at your lips and soothe the slight sting with his tongue. You whimpered at his touch and kissed him once again, moving your hands down to trace along the hard lines of his chest. Your hand moved lower and Hanno quickly pulled away from you, one of his hands catching yours and tangling your fingers with his.

“Not yet,” he panted against your cheek. “Not yet.”

Dawn was breaking when you awoke. Your head rested on a blanket that you recognized as Hanno’s while your own draped over you, protecting you from the bitterly cold nights of Numidia. Your soldier sat wide awake and alert beside you and you could tell, from the fatigue weighing down his eyes, that he hadn’t slept a wink through the night. A silent sentry, guarding you and Lulit from any unseen danger.

The blanket fell from your shoulder as you began to sit up and he instinctively reached over to drag it back up your shoulder, bathing you in warmth from both the outside and surging through your insides at his tenderness.

You woke Lulit and the three of you rode back to the city, barely making it in time before a search party headed by Lulit’s husband went out. He wept when he saw his wife and swept her into his arms. Two men offered to take your horses to the stables to care for them and you graciously accepted. Hanno refused to leave your side until he deposited you at your doorstep.

It was still early but you knew your parents would be awake, both from their anxiety and their history as farmers. Your mother let out a shriek when she saw you approach and ran from the doorway to hug you. Hanno squeezed your hand once and made to step away, but you kept your fingers tightly entwined with his.

“I believe you have something to ask of my father,” you explained. His brows raised in surprise and you offered him a shy smile. As your mother ran back to the house to exclaim of your return, you raised your clasped hands so you could press a kiss to his dirt-stained skin.

“Are you sure?” His hesitation had nothing to do with you, but rather in his belief that he was not good enough for you. You laughed and started to drag him in the direction of the house.

“You foolish man.” A boyish grin lit up his face and he followed you inside.

“What happens to me once we reach Rome?”

General Acacius looked up from the letter he was writing and turned to face you. The floor barely made a comfortable place to lay your head, but he had at least given you blankets and removed the chains from your legs. They only went back on when you were on the deck, thanks in part to your failed attempt to jump overboard and sink into the sea.

“My wife will find a place for you in her house,” he explained. You scoffed and picked at the dried blood under your fingernails. You spent your days stitching up and tending to the wounds of Roman soldiers and spent your nights curled up on the floor of this room, dreaming of bright blue eyes and a crooked smile.

“Why? Couldn’t you just drop me off at the nearest brothel and let them rip me apart?” His compassion, minimal at best but still present, confused you. To him, you were barbarian scum. A conquered people. Prisoner of war, spoils, an artifact of his military prowess. He winced at your accusation, knowing that it was true for many military campaigns that the women were subjugated into the slave trade and forced into prostitution. The general refused to meet your eyes and you savored what little bit of power you held over him.

You could picture it now. You would demure yourself and behave in his wife’s house until you found a chance to slit her throat and leave him with the same raw, empty feeling that consumed you.

“You have skills that would be useful,” he muttered. “Your husban-”

“Don’t you dare speak of him,” you hissed. “My husband was a good and kind man. You do not deserve to speak of him.”

“He taught you well,” he continued on. “Lucilla could use someone with your skill set.”

The name made you pause and you tilted your head to the side, brows furrowing as you mentally ran through your memories. “Lucilla, daughter of Aurelius?”

He regarded you with suspicion. “Aye. How do you know of her?”

“Everyone knows of Marcus Aurelius,” you retorted. “I’d be a fool not to.”

A sudden knock on the door drew his attention away from you and he rose to answer it. General Acacius left the room to sort out some sort of issue and left you alone with your thoughts. You drew your knees up to your chest and rested your cheek against your folded arms. If you shut your eyes, you could see his face. If you thought hard enough, you could feel him in your dreams. The rough stubble of his beard. The high plains of his cheekbones. The crooked smile he gave you when he made you laugh.

Lucilla, daughter of Aurelius, you ran the words over and over in your head. Aurelius. Aurelius.

You could only hope that Hanno would forgive you if you delayed your joining with him in the afterlife for a little bit longer.

He slept fitfully on the ship and in the cages. He dreams of your eyes, your laugh, your smile, and wakes with your name on his lips in a strangled cry that he buries into his bicep and lets only a few tears leak out onto his battered skin. 

He has nightmares most nights and the lack of sleep fuels his rage. Dark circles take hold under his eyes and weariness leaves red rims around his blue pupils, making him appear as the wild barbarian they purport him to be. His muscles ache and scream and bruises litter his torso. He bites a monkey back and savors the burning anger that courses through his veins. The crowds cheer and shout and applaud his fury, but he pays them no mind. All he focuses on is going back to his cell and dreaming of you once more.

Killing men has never been an issue for him. He was raised a fighter, even in Numidia where he helped Jugurtha lead their forces. He fought in skirmishes and battles. When he met you, it brought another reason to keep the fight going. He refused to let a single person pass into the gates of the city when you were seeking protection inside. He had failed you, and every new scar on his body was merely penance.

Ravi chastises him for the way that he seeks out injury, but the man doesn’t refuse to help him. In an opium-fueled haze, Hanno tells him quietly that his wife was a healer. She was exceedingly kind and gentle. Too gentle for him. He was scared he would break her with his brutish nature, but she was also enduringly strong. A stray tear slips down his cheek and he tosses the opium aside in favor of feeling the pain and knowing that it pales in comparison to the ache in his chest. His grief builds and compounds into this sickening version of him that he cannot recognize. The blood of other men stains his skin, no matter how hard he scrubs in the baths. Even when the iron-thick substance is gone, he can still see it.

Macrinus brought the finest courtesans by his cell, but he refused them everytime. Once, the girl shared a similar hair color as you and he invited her into his cell, but merely let her rest on his cot while he sat at his desk and sketched what he could remember of your face on thin papyrus.

When he looked into the stands and saw your murderer seated with his mother, his rage calcified into his heart. With every kill, he pictured your pale face crying out for him. With every breath, he reminded himself of his failure to protect you. His mother had the audacity to reason with him.

“Do you have a family?” Lucilla asked.

He says your name with the reverence afforded to the gods and then hisses out that you were dead and taken from him by her husband. How dare she try to call her son home when she shares a bed with that monster? Ferality consumed him and his thirst for revenge. He meant what he said to Macrinus. Only Acacius’ head will quench this fire in his blood. For a sickening moment, he wants his mother to feel the way he does.

There are times when the night is darkest that his mind descends into the throes of the deepest depression and he wonders about how you would feel if you saw him like this. There is one nightmare that plays over and over again in his mind. He is in the Colosseum and the crowd is cheering in their bloodlust. The gates open and he steps out to face his next opponent, only to find you standing in the sand with your hands outstretched towards him. In this dream, he can’t stop himself from raising his blade an-

He woke up screaming.

Hanno doesn’t trust Macrinus within an inch of his life, but he trusts that he’ll bring him Acacius and that…that will be enough.

“Can I tell you a story?” Hanno whispered into your hair.

The wedding was an all-day event. You looked resplendent with flowers woven in your hair and layers of colorful fabric adorning your body. It felt as though the whole city came out to celebrate your union and the dancing, food, and music flowed for hours. Jugurtha clapped his hands on Hanno’s shoulders and congratulated him. A knowing glint flashed in the older man’s eyes and Hanno was eternally grateful for the man’s meddling.

Your father had tears in his eyes when he took your hand from his and placed it into Hanno’s, but they were tears of joy. When discussing the marriage negotiations and dowry, your father declared that there was no one greater for his daughter. In his vows, Hanno promised to protect and provide for you until his very last breath, one that he would take with you in his arms at an old age, with your children around you.

As the night grew longer, the crowds began to thin out. Parents took sleeping children home and the elders slipped away so they could rise early and start their daily chores. The fires began to burn low and Hanno looked over to you, only to have his breath catch in his throat at the realization.

His wife. His wife. Your lovely face was now his to wake up to every morning and your sweet laughter was his to elicit. Izim was telling some tall tale about his adventures as a sentry, but Hanno didn’t hear a single word. He ignored the hoots and hollers of his fellow soldiers and friends as he left their group and strode towards you.

The women around you tittered and giggled as he approached and it drew your attention away from whatever Seble was telling you. You barely had time to react when he suddenly scooped you into his arms. Hanno easily cradled you to him, your long veils swirling around the two of you, and he made his way towards the new house he had built with the help of your father and a few friends. The party cheered and you hid your laughter into the crook of his neck.

Hanno stopped in the doorway and set you gently onto your feet so you could examine your new home. Someone, your mother, you presumed, had already set some lanterns alight in the house and a clay jar of flowers sat on the small wooden table in the center of the room. It was a small house with the bed on one side and a small kitchen on the other. You traced your hand along the furniture that you knew he constructed himself. Your dowry chest laid at the foot of the bed already and a loom was on the wall. Your husband had done all of this.

The word made your throat squeeze with a level of affection you had never experienced before. He watched you carefully from the doorway, but you could see tension in the line of his shoulders and how his hands fidgeted until he clasped them behind his back. The flames from the lanterns made his eyes glow and heightened the smooth planes of his face. You reached up and unclasped your veils, letting them pool at your feet before you took a step forward.

He met you halfway, his hands going to settle on your waist as you nestled into his strong arms. Your hands came up to rest on the rough fabric of his tunic and you could feel his heart beat wildly under the tips of your fingers.

“My husband,” you breathed to the heavens. You wanted the gods to know that this man was yours. He had placed an iron ring on your finger and you savored the weight of it, the press of it against your skin. Hanno’s lips lifted in the barest hint of a grin, but his eyes took on almost burning intensity.

With nimble fingers, you released the clasps of his tunic yet kept your gaze locked on his as the fabric pooled to the ground. Hanno’s breaths grew ragged as you settled your hands back onto the chiseled muscle of his chest. For a moment, nothing happened. You just stared at one another as the air electrified with palpable energy. You had no idea where this boldness emerged from, but you slid your hand down his bicep, along his arm, and then to his wrist where you clasped it and raised his hand to rest on your breast. He swallowed so hard you could see his throat bob and just the simple evidence of his arousal made your skin burn.

“My wife,” he said hoarsely and untied your dress.

Hanno sucked in a shuddering breath as the fabric fell away from your body and joined his on the floor. He stroked his hands over your quivering flesh and stepped forward so that his body pressed against the length of yours. You felt him harden against your thigh as he leaned down to capture your lips in his. The two of you had kissed plenty of times, from small chaste pecks to that heated moment in the forest, but this felt entirely new and you welcomed it. He nibbled at your lips and explored your mouth with the desperation of a dying man searching for water. You moaned your approval which encouraged him and he let one of his hands drift down to cup your breast.

Hanno’s touch made your skin light on fire with every simple brush. How were you supposed to act when the man strutted around shirtless most of the time and built your house? Some of the older women in the city gossiped about their husbands. They told you about how it hurt, about the way he took without giving, and how they hated it.

From the delicate way Hanno touched you and the tender press of his lips against your pulse point, you knew that this would be different. He bent down and hauled you up against him, your legs wrapping around his waist for security, but you knew he would never drop you. You slid your arms around his neck, pulling your chest flush with his and he let his head fall back with a sinful groan, exposing the column of his throat. Eagerly, you licked a stripe up against his sweat-tinged skin and savored the taste of salt, musk, and man.

“By the gods, you will be the end of me, my little wife.” His teeth enclosed around the hinge of your jaw and you let your head fall to the side with a little sigh. Hanno nipped at the skin of your neck and you jolted against him, causing his throbbing cock to brush against you. Hanno squeezed his eyes shut at the sensation that wracked his body and you turned your head so he was facing you. Running your thumb along his jaw, you pulled your husband into another kiss and then pulled his bottom lip between your teeth. He sucked in a sharp breath and his hold tightened on you, sending a zing of pain mixed with pleasure down your spine.

“Take me to bed, husband,” you panted against his mouth. “Claim me as yours.”

Furs and silk lined the bed and softened your fall. You marveled at the way he prepared everything for you, even bringing over the blankets you wove for your marriage chest and setting them on the bed. He planted himself over you, his chest rising and falling with every heavy breath he took and you stole a glance down his broad chest to the heavy manhood that stood proud between his thighs. Your body pulsed with want even as your mind protested the idea of taking his length. He sensed your apprehension and leaned down to place a gentle kiss against your temple, your brow, both eyelids, and then your lips once more.

“I cannot promise it to be painless,” he said. “But I will do everything in my power to make sure you find bliss too.”

One of his hands snaked down to your most intimate place and your eyes widened with shock as he brushed the pad of his finger along the seam of your cunt. Your legs spread further apart instinctively and he kissed you in thanks for your invitation. A gasp escaped you as one of his fingers slid past your entrance and he kissed away your shock, even as you felt the rough and calloused pad of his finger slide up and press against some part of you that had you seeing stars. A little whimper from you had him pausing and he immediately pulled his hand away, eliciting a low whine from his wife. Hanno couldn’t stop his cocky smile that spread across his face before he touched that part of you again. His finger drew a circle over your flesh and your hips canted up, a mewl spilling past your lips and your breath catching. He stole a kiss, then another as he sent electricity up your spine and shocks scattered through your bones.

“You are magnificent,” he murmured just as he slipped another finger into your aching cunt. For a moment, you felt a hint of discomfort and bit your lip to refrain from making a sound. Hanno frowned and pulled your lip out from between your teeth. Some small part of you whispered ugly words and lies into your mind in an attempt to push his affection away. He only wanted you because other men did. You were merely a token to conquer. He needed a wife before he could get a concubine.

“Let me hear those pretty sounds.” He kissed the corner of your lips and you turned your head to see him properly once more. His eyes burned with a hunger you had seen before like in the forest or when he saw you carry one of the village babes on your hip. Hanno cheek pressed against your own and he whispered into your ear as he sank one finger into you and then two. He told you how proud he was of you, how good you were for him, how precious you were, as he pulled little cries of pleasure from you. You tightened around his fingers and he leaned back and watched your face as your body twitched and seized with the electric shocks of pleasure. A proud smile captured his face and he craned his head down to kiss you again and again and again. You climbed higher, higher, higher but then he abruptly pulled his hand from you, leaving you empty and aching. 

“I know, I know,” he groaned in that deep timbre bass that wracked through your body. Hanno rubbed a gentle circle into your outer thigh and shifted himself until he was kneeling between your spread legs. He grasped his cock in one hand and pressed his other hand to your hip, holding you in place under his heavy gaze. You squirmed as his eyes raked down your naked body and the little thoughts began to creep in once more, but he silenced them with one word.

“Divine.” Hanno leaned down and laid the flat of his tongue along your cunt. Your back arched off the bed with a choked out gasp and for a moment, you thought you died and entered the afterlife. He chuckled against your inner thigh and pressed a kiss to your pussy before sitting back on his heels. He stroked his thick length twice before moving closer to you. He nestled his face against your hair and inhaled the sweet scent of rose petals. His cheek rested on your temple, and he shocked you with his question.

“Can I tell you a story?”

You choked back a laugh and kissed the shell of his ear. “I suppose.” While you were the typical storyteller, you would always accept whatever he gave you.

“There was a king of the island of Ithaca by the name of Ulysses*. He was sent to fight in the Trojan War and on the way home, was blown off course. The journey home took over ten years and was filled with countless obstacles and dangers.” You gasped as the blunt head of his cock slid past your entrance and Hanno inhaled deeply. “Odysseus had a wife, the queen of Ithaca, named Penelope. A hundred suitors from the various lands and tribes came in an attempt to woo her and take her hand in marriage. Everyone thought Odysseus to be dead.”

He rocked his hips and his thick length began to split you open and your lips parted in a silent moan. Any air that was in your lungs seemed to evaporate as he filled you fully. Hanno swallowed your shaky whimper with a sweet kiss. You clawed for purchase against his chest, your limbs liquifying when he pulled out. Hanno caught your hand in his and flipped your hand over so he could pepper kisses along the inside of your wrist.

“Penelope was a devoted wife and ever faithful. She never doubted that Odysseus was alive and would come back to her. She lied to the suitors and told them that she would marry them when she finished weaving a funeral shroud. But she undid her work each night.” This time, his intrusion didn’t have the burn like the last thrust. Instead, his cock dragged against your walls in such a way that had your eyes rolling back into your head.

Hanno groaned as he started a steady thrust of his hips. He moved your hands above your head and entangled his fingers with yours, squeezing them in assurance as he fucked you. The pleasure burned so hot in your stomach and consumed your entire being. Everytime he thrust in, it felt like he was carving you out and branding you with his claim and oh, how you wanted this. He built this house for you and your future and even though he put a roof over your head, you saw stars with every touch against your skin.

“Ha-Hann…” You whined as he hit a certain spot that made your head spin. “Hanno.”

He frowned and slowed his thrusts and he touched your cheek, his thumb rubbing away the tear that you didn’t realize slipped down. “Does it hurt?”

You yanked him closer until his nose was touching yours. Your legs wrapped around his hips and he bottomed out in surprise.

 “Don’t you dare stop.” He grinned that reckless, crooked smile of his and swept your lips into a bruising kiss as he fucked every last thought out of your head. His name became a prayer that you chanted to the skies as he took you higher and higher until that coil that wrapped in your stomach snapped. You clenched around his cock and your body seized up as your orgasm washed over you. Hanno let out a guttural, animalistic groan and he spilled his seed into you, flooding you with warmth.

Silence enveloped the two of you, only the heavy exhales from exertion permeating the bubble that surrounded you. Hanno’s body relaxed and he caught himself before he put all of his weight on you. Rolling to the side, his arm came up to curl around your front, and he pulled you to his chest. Nose to nose, you met his gaze and let your breath mingle with his.

“Penelope didn’t falter in her devotion,” you said hoarsely. “Did she?”

His hand drifted up and down the raised gooseflesh on your arm and he reached over to draw one of the furs over you. “Aye, she didn’t.”

You tossed the edge of the fur over him and kissed him once again. “I will always remain steadfast.”

His lips met your temple and he tucked your head under his chin. “And I shall always come for you. No matter what it takes.”

Acacius lead you into the villa, the shackles and a new plate around your neck indicating your designation as slave. Lucilla immediately greeted him with an embrace and you looked away, your heart shattering at the sight. Quiet words were exchanged between the two before Acacius paused and stepped back to display you.

“She is from Numidia,” he explained. “She has skills in healing and I felt she would be a good addition to the household.”

Lucilla approached you and took in your sorry state. You felt bile rise in your throat as you bowed your head to the woman, but she stopped you with a raised hand.

“What is your name?” she asked you in Phoenician. You paused before answering her in your second tongue. That’s when you saw her eyes and realized, with a jolt, that she was indeed the woman you had heard of.

“Leta,” Lucilla called for another slave. “Come. Show her to the baths and give her a fresh chiton. Acacius, unchain her.”

He obeyed his wife’s command, but the slate remained. Perhaps you would wear it for the rest of your, hopefully short, life. Leta, an older woman, silently beckoned you to follow her deeper into the villa where a few slave women were gathered together over a pool of warm water.

“Who is this?” one of them asked in Latin.

“A Barbarian whore for the general, I presume,” Leta replied. “He brought her from Numidia. Thing hasn’t had a bath in her whole life.”

You remained silent, hands clasped before you, even as Leta pointed towards the bath. “You. Wash.” You pretended not to understand and she huffed out an annoyed breath and marched off, leaving you to strip out of your ruined and bloody dress from home and step into the water. You didn’t want to wash the gore off of your skin. Not when it was your last reminder of home. Of him.

Taking a moment to look around, you tried to picture what it was like living here in all its splendor. Leta returned and tossed a dress for you onto the edge of the tile and you stared at it blankly. She turned her back to you and started to gossip with the other girls. Your hands scrubbed at your skin, but your ears picked up all that they were saying. Gladiator games, senators, the emperors, it was all banal and boring.

But you found it all invaluable.

When night fell, you slipped out from the tiny cot you had been given in the slave quarters and silently made your way through the halls. Mosaics lined the walls and depicted everything from myths to actual battles. You stopped at the bust of Marcus Aurelius and stared at it for a moment. Shaking your head, you moved on to the hall that everyone had pointedly walked past and Leta explained was off-limits. Or as she said, “no touch”, because she thought that your supposed inability to speak Latin was also an indication of your idiocy.

You pushed open the doors and entered the chambers. Dust covered every inch of the place, as if no one had been in here for years. You carefully made your way over a broken tile and into the bedchamber where the sheets were still unmade and a book lay open on the desk. Turning slowly, you took in the whole of the room with an unsteady inhale.

“The gates of hell are open night and day,” you whispered under your breath. The words were etched onto the top of the wall. “Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies.” As you spoke, you could almost feel the presence of him at your back, his rough and low voice breathing the words into your ear.

You fled from the room, unable to bear it.

You almost made it back across the atrium when Lucilla emerged from seemingly out of nowhere. The two of you paused and you quickly lowered your head in deference.

“I hope you weren’t trying to escape,” she said gently. “Acacius told me that you were recently made a widow.”

The wince on your face was visible even in the moonlight and she stepped forward, her hands clasping over yours in comfort. She spoke her next words in Latin. “I am sorry. These meaningless deaths are foolish emperors playing war without considering the human cost of it.” The older woman patted your hand and made to leave, but your voice stopped her.

“Your slaves do not respect you,” you spoke in Latin. “Leta spreads vicious rumors about you and she said she has ties with some of the senators. Your allies are playing you and your plan is shaky at best.”

She whirled around to face you and you jutted your chin out in defiance, your eyes flashing with something dangerous. “In Numidia, my husband was the soldier, Domina. But I was the politician.”

Macrinus delivered on his promise. Acacius faced off with four soldiers in the Colosseum before Hanno was given a taste of vengeance and oh, did he savor it. Acacius ordered your death. Now, Hanno had the chance to ensure you were honored properly.

But Acacius stood across from him, sword on the ground, and accepted his death with a stoicism that Hanno only dreamed of possessing. The crowd roared and swelled with indignation after Hanno demanded to know their morals, but he was ushered away before he joined his father in dying in this ring.

He was granted the chance to see his mother one last time before her execution for treason and his slaughter in the arena. Lucilla told him of his father and he remembered meeting Maximus and how kind he was, even in the jaws of death. When his mother meets him for the last time, his only thought is how much Lucilla would like you.

She gave him two gifts in parting.

One, his grandfather’s ring.

Two, a lock of hair. And not just any…

Lucilla smiled sadly. “Acacius took her from Numidia to be a healer and didn’t realize she was your wife. She is safe, Lucius, and under the care of my household. I’m afraid I put it together too late, and she isn’t aware that you are here.”

For a moment, the rage subsided and he heard only a shrill ringing in his ears, as though he took a heavy blow to the head. Lucius turned the hair over in his hand and raised it to his nose, smelling a faint hint of rose petals.

I shall always come for you. No matter what it takes.

His mother was taken back to his cell and he took a moment to curl his palm around this fragment of you and press it to his chest to guard it from the world.

And then he called for Ravi.

Your hands remained steady when you slit Leta’s throat. You did so quietly, in the darkness of an alleyway. Blood never fazed you before, and the taking of a life was no different now. As far as you were concerned, this woman was one of the reasons why your Hanno was dead. Was it a rational thought? Perhaps not. But rationality would come another day.

The Colosseum roared with fury and you tried not to flinch at the deafening sound as you slipped in through the gates below, into the pens with the animals and gladiators. Chaos reigned above and below the world’s largest stadium so it was easy to blend in with others. The cloak you stole from Leta made you appear to be a fellow slave working amongst the masses. It never failed to amaze you how they called you a barbarian when they fought men to the death for their entertainment.

Your fingers skated over the smooth wood that curved over your spine and you felt a little better knowing that it was on you. The games were already underway with a few prisoners being devoured by Barbary lions as the crowd screamed for their blood to spill. You slipped around a few courtesans that lingered in the hall and passed the raised dais where three maidens were chained. Pushing on, you found a small corridor that was unoccupied and slipped in between the stones to hide from any roaming eyes.

The noise increased and you knew what was coming. Lucilla would be executed and Macrinus was to blame. The lanista was the mastermind of all of this, and you knew firsthand what war could do to people. You refused to let Lucilla die and, as much as you hated the Romans for what they took from you, the innocent children in the streets would die.

After this, you promised yourself, you would join Hanno.

Footsteps rushed past your hiding spot and when it quieted down in the hallway, you took that as a chance to peek out and see if you had an opening. You slipped out into the hall and darted towards one of the gates that was partly open. A bloodbath was the only word to describe what was happening in the Colosseum. You blanched at the sight of Lucilla tied to the dais, but it seemed as though the gladiators had it well in hand.

Removing the bow from your back, you notched an arrow onto the string and inhaled deeply. Macrinus was not hard to stop, thanks to his place behind Emperor Caracalla, but you didn’t have a clear shot. The crowd was turning on the Praetors and more soldiers entered the Colosseum on horseback. One Praetor nearly took the head off of a gladiator and you turned your bow in that direction.

Breathe in, aim, fire as you breathe out, Jugurtha had instructed. Keep your arm steady, your aim true, and your mind clear. There is no time to panic, just shoot.

The arrow sailed through the air and straight through the Praetor’s shoulder, knocking him off his horse and to the ground. You drew another arrow and started to aim towards Macrinus once more, but this time he was standing up. Caracalla was slumped over dead in front of him and Macrinus had his own bow in his hand.

Numidians were excellent horsemen and archers. Before you ever met Hanno, before you even bled for the first time, you were trained in the art of horsemanship and archery. Indeed your husband vowed his protection, but you were not one to go down without a fight. He taught you how to manipulate a knife, where to aim on the body, but Hanno never came close to your familiarity with a bow.

Your next arrow arched through the air and collided with Macrinus’ shot. The wood splintered midair and you loaded a third, but the lanista fled the stands before you could take another shot. It gave a gladiator the chance to free Lucilla and pass her to another gladiator, a hulking beast of a man. The gladiator gave chase to Macrinus and you focused your attention on your subject at hand.

There had to have been a reason the gods kept you alive and took Hanno. Clearly, it was to protect your husband’s mother.

“Are you ever going to tell me what you’re hiding from me?”

His hand stilled from where it had been absentmindedly stroking your thigh. Hanno came home from the field and immediately drew you into his lap, inhaling your sweet smell and letting his hands roam all over your body. You savored his touch, but marriage had sharpened your mind regarding his mannerisms. Something was bothering him.

Hanno sighed and he nuzzled his nose against your shoulder. You let him have this moment, but you would weasel the truth out of him, someway or another.

“Is it another woman? A concubine?” you asked, your voice hushed and wounded. He laid a kiss against your skin and shook his head.

“Rome is moving closer,” he finally said. You turned so you could see his face and cupped his chin, drawing his head up to meet your gaze. He blinked up at you with those sky blue eyes of his and nestled into your palm until he could lay a gentle kiss there.

“My name, my real name,” he whispered, “is Lucius Verus Aurelius and I am the prince of Rome.”

The first thing he did after ascending his rightful place as Emperor of Rome was go to his mother’s villa.

Lucilla was fine, a small gash on her bicep and shaken up, but fine. He tried to be a good son, but she could tell his focus was on anywhere but her. Lucilla directed him to the gardens and that is where he found you.

The Roman dress was different from what he was used to seeing, but you still covered your head with a veil when praying to your gods. Head tilted towards the heavens, hands outstretched, you made a beautiful image of devotion.

Your feet inched closer to the edge of the cliff.

“Forgive me, my love, for being so weak that I could not do this sooner,” you said. Tears coursed down your cheeks and stained the fabric of your chiton with damp tracks. You muttered a mixture of prayer and apology and he strained to hear it.

“Give me the strength to commit this final act, oh gods, grant me this. I have protected his mother and granted her the life he was not spared. Please, oh Hanno, let me see you in the afterlife. I am tired, so tired of only seeing you in my dreams.”

“Step back from the edge, my heart.” His voice came out in a tremble.

“Hanno,” you whispered. “Forgive me for being so weak. Forgive me for failing you. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been nothing but strong.” A ferocity claims his words. “Step back from the edge.”

“We made a promise,” you pleaded. “We go as one. Let me join you, please.”

You raise one foot over the rocky cliff and he lashed out before he could think. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you back so hard that the both of you tumbled to the ground. Quickly, Lucius kneeled by your side to search for any injury.

“Open your eyes,” he ordered. This was the afterlife. It must be. You obeyed his command to find those bright blue eyes that haunted your dreams.

“Am I finally dead?”

“Not for a long, long time.”

No, this wasn’t the afterlife. Blood caked his skin and scars littered his bare arms. He had been muscular before but now he appeared to be only thick, corded muscle. Your hands came up to rest on his neck and you examined his face. The same freckles. Same lines by his eyes. Same long eyelashes.

Trailing your hands down along his arms, you skirted around the obvious injuries he had until your fingers brushed something new, something entirely foreign to you that resided on his shoulder.

A brand.

And with that, the dam within you shattered. The wails of a widow finally escaped your chest and you let out an agonized scream as you curled in on yourself. Hanno gathered you into his arms and buried his face into the crook of your neck. Hot tears slid down his cheeks and onto your skin. Your hands scrambled to find purchase on the armor that still adorned his body and you eventually settled on cradling the back of his head with one hand and grasping his forearm with the other.

“I am so sorry,” he wept. “If I had known you were alive, I would have come for you sooner.” He wrenched the slave plate from your neck and kissed the places where the chain had rubbed your skin raw.

All the agony of grief and rage and terror from the last month spilled out of him in broken, gasping sobs. His precious wife was alive and in his arms. Numidia had fallen, but now he had the chance to protect her with all the power and might of Rome. He could now have armies at his beck and call, coffers of coins brought to him, and enemies assassinated but the true power laid in his arms.

His little wife was right. He was the soldier, the muscle, the physical strength. But the reason he fought and killed, the reason he kept going even when every part of his body screamed to give up, was because of her. As far as he was concerned, she had the power to raze cities and command armies. All she had to do was ask him.

“Is this real?” you breathed once your sobs and trembling ceased. He pulled you into his lap and almost began crying once again at the feel of your supple body against his.

“It’s real,” he assured you before he bent down and kissed you. Despite the blood that coated his skin, you savored the taste of him. You never thought you would get this again. Maybe the gods did bless you.

He kept you pressed against his side as you made your way back into the villa. One of the slaves nearly dropped her tray at the sight before her and ran to grab Lucilla. The stately woman swept into the courtyard and met you both there.

“Lucius,” she exclaimed. “I take it that this is your wife.”

“Yes.” His gaze never strayed from your face. “This is her.”

You instinctively went to bow to Lucilla but she stopped you with a gentle hand on your arm.

“You are not my slave any longer,” she assured you. “Not only did you save my life, but you are now my daughter and also Augusta.”

Hanno, Lucius, you reminded yourself, stood in all his resplendent glory, covered in dirt and blood with his gladius hanging from his sheath. How different the two of you were now, yet still fit like the gods made you for each other. Your small house was gone. Your home was subjugated. Your family and friends in the afterlife. But Lucius was still here and still breathing. That made it all worth it.

When he’s on top of you, dragging his hips back and forth, driving his pulsing length inside you with each thrust—it makes you truly believe in God, in the glory of it all. It’s a silly thought, of course, that a man could ever make you feel the way Lucius does, but you’ve also convinced yourself that your lover is otherworldly altogether, undeserving of simply gracing this earth as he is. He belongs in a sun-kissed kingdom of heaven, a land that reflects his beauty and essence.

He’s smiling at you, his beautiful canines gleaming in the dimly lit room you both currently occupy. “Amica mea,” he whispers, just as he hits that perfect spot inside you. “My beautiful wife, so wonderfully laid beneath me…” Another thrust. Another moan escapes his lips—a beautiful sound, no doubt. “You always take me so well, so pliable for me, amica mea.” His hand moves down to your clit, rubbing it in that rough yet addictive manner he’s perfected.

He lowers his head to nuzzle your neck, kissing you with a vengeance, his movements bordering on animalistic. You suppose that’s how it always is when you’re like this—molded together by love and lust. “Lucius… Lucius, I’m close, please…” you plead. He presses a kiss to your cheek, a reminder that he’s still with you, not completely lost to the pleasure consuming his blood and mind.

“Let go, let go for me, amica mea, release for your husband.” With the added pressure of his thumb against your most sensitive spot, you can’t hold back. You shudder, staining his cock with your release, clenching around him in a way that coaxes his own climax—filling you, painting your insides white with his seed.

You’re breathless now, but satisfied—content. Your husband lies beside you, gazing at you with a look that can only be described as unconditional. It almost makes you reach for him again—almost. You smile to yourself, a warm glow of happiness surrounding you both. This is enough, you’ve decided—just him and you, together, exploring each other’s bodies as if it could very well be the last thing you’d ever do.

The banners of the Great Houses fluttered in the wind over Harrenhal, the sigils of lions, stags, and dragons rippling in the evening breeze as the crowd gathered for the feast following the grand tourney. The air was still alive with the energy of the jousting, and although the excitement had begun to wane, there was a certain anticipation in the hall. All eyes were on Rhaegar as he made his way through the throng, his violet eyes bright with the joy of victory. He had won, of course. He always won, but this time it was different. This time, he had crowned you as Queen of Love and Beauty.

Your heart had raced when he placed the crown of blue roses upon your head, the sweet fragrance mingling with the heady scent of victory. The world had held its breath as Rhaegar declared you, his sister-wife, the fairest in the realm. You could still feel the weight of the roses on your brow, the petals soft against your skin, though their meaning was sharper, darker, than anyone else knew.

The feast was in full swing now, the hall alive with laughter, the clink of goblets, and the melodies of minstrels. Yet amid the merriment, your eyes flickered over to where Cersei sat, brooding in silence beside Robert Baratheon, her golden-haired children at her side. The sight of her soured the sweetness of your triumph, her jealousy almost tangible. She had wanted this life, wanted Rhaegar, wanted everything you had. But she had been given to Robert instead, and though the two of them had "produced" golden-haired heirs, the bitterness in her eyes was undeniable.

Cersei’s fingers curled tightly around her goblet, and she forced a smile as one of her children, a boy with bright, golden locks, tugged at her sleeve. You saw the flicker of resentment there, the edge of anger she could not hide. Robert was drunk, as usual, leaning back in his chair and boasting loudly to those around him. He paid no attention to Cersei or the children, too absorbed in his own revelry. Tywin Lannister sat nearby, his eyes scanning the room, calculating, always calculating. He was trying, as he had for years now, to regain the favor of King Aerys, but with little success. Aerys barely looked at him, his disinterest in Tywin as obvious as the growing anomasity between them. The king’s gaze flitted to his daughter—you—and then to Rhaegar, approval gleaming faintly in his eyes, as if Aerys himself was pleased by the choice of queen for this evening.

You smiled to yourself as you let your eyes drift over the crowd, searching for a figure you had been keeping watch for. And there he was, standing by the shadows near the far end of the hall—Wisdom Rossart. His pale face gleamed in the torchlight, and his thin lips curled into a grin as he caught your eye. The firelight danced in his eyes, and he inclined his head, awaiting your signal.

You gave it with the faintest tilt of your head, and Rossart bowed slightly before slipping silently from the hall, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost. He knew his task. The plans were already in motion.

Beside you, Rhaegar’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, his touch warm, grounding. He had been smiling all evening, more at ease than you had seen him in months. Perhaps it was the joy of the tourney, of winning the crown and crowning you, his beloved, in front of all the realm. Or perhaps it was something deeper, the belief that after all the grief and anger that had filled your lives, you were finally finding peace again. You could see it in his eyes—the relief that, after the loss of your son, you were calm. Too calm.

He watched you now, his gaze soft but searching, as if he were trying to understand the change in you. Since the murder of your child, a fire had been lit inside you, one that had burned so brightly it had frightened him at times. But now, he believed, that fire had dulled. You were content, or so it seemed.

“Y/N,” Rhaegar murmured, leaning closer to you, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’ve been calm these past months, my love. Are you... happy?”

You turned your head to meet his gaze, your smile serene. “I am,” you whispered back. “I have made my peace with what has happened.”

Rhaegar studied your face for a moment longer, searching for something, anything, that might betray the depth of what truly lay within you. But there was nothing. Your calmness was a mask you had worn so well that even he, your dearest Rhaegar, could not see past it. At last, he smiled, his own shoulders relaxing, the tension melting away from him. “Then I am happy, too,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Your eyes flickered to your children, Aelor and Visenya, sitting just a few feet away, laughing with their attendants and watching the minstrels with wide, curious eyes. Aelor, now one and three years old, was the image of his father, regal and composed even at his young age, while Visenya, still so small, clung to her brother’s side, her laughter bright and full of innocence.

You leaned over to their attendants, your voice gentle but firm. “It is time for the children to be taken to their chambers. Escort them to bed.”

The servants nodded, quickly gathering the children and ushering them from the hall. You watched them go, your heart tightening just slightly, but the calmness never left you. They were safe. Tonight, at least, they were safe.

Rhaegar’s arm slipped around your waist as he pulled you closer, his attention returning to the revelry before them. “It is good to see you content, Y/N,” he said, his voice soft with affection. “For so long, I feared I had lost you to grief.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, smiling as you brought the goblet of wine to your lips, but as you drank, the taste was empty, as if it were nothing but air passing over your tongue. You couldn’t taste the wine anymore—hadn’t been able to for months now. It didn’t matter.

As the feast continued, you felt Rhaegar relax further, confident that the woman he loved, his sister-wife, was finally at peace. He didn’t see the storm that still brewed beneath your calm exterior, didn’t see the fire that burned quietly, waiting for its moment. You had found your peace, yes—but it was the peace that came before the blaze. You glanced once more at the empty space where Rossart had stood, the faintest smile tugging at your lips.

Let them enjoy the night, you thought. For soon, fire and blood will come for those who deserve it.

And when that time came, you would watch them burn, just as the dragon within you had always longed for.

The grand doors of the hall groaned as Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Lewyn Martell pushed them closed, sealing the gathered lords, ladies, and knights inside the vast chamber. The sound of music halted abruptly, the melodies fading into an eerie silence that settled over the hall like a shroud. The air felt heavy, almost oppressive, as if the very walls of Harrenhal had begun to press inward.

King Aerys stood from his seat at the high table, his thin frame silhouetted by the flickering torchlight, his mad eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. His lips curled into a twisted smile as he raised his goblet, the movement drawing every gaze in the room. His voice rang out, sharp and high, cutting through the stillness.

“A toast!” Aerys cried, his voice laced with both malice and glee. “A toast to family, to blood, to fire!”

The gathered courtiers lifted their goblets with hesitant smiles, though an undercurrent of unease rippled through the crowd. Aerys’s words, his tone, carried a weight that none could ignore, and for a moment, the feeling of dread set in, as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.

But before Aerys could continue, you stood, your movement slow and deliberate. All eyes shifted to you, and a murmur passed through the hall as they watched, waiting. Rhaegar, seated beside you, glanced up in surprise, his brow furrowing as he watched you rise.

You raised your goblet with a serene smile, your voice carrying through the hall with a calmness that belied the storm within you. “To family,” you began, your tone measured, almost hypnotic. “To the bonds that tie us, the blood that runs through our veins, and the fires we tend... and those we ignite.”

The hall fell deathly quiet. The courtiers exchanged uncertain glances, and you could feel their unease spreading like a ripple through the room. Rhaegar’s hand brushed against your arm, a silent question, but you didn’t acknowledge him. Your gaze drifted across the faces in the hall—Cersei’s sharp eyes, Tywin’s calculating expression, Robert’s oblivious drunken grin. All of them, guilty in your eyes. All of them about to pay.

Cersei, seated beside her golden-haired children, felt a prickle of dread. Something was wrong. The lighting in the hall had been off the entire evening, the flicker of the torches casting strange shadows across the room. She had noticed it earlier, the way the flames had seemed to shift unnaturally, but now... now it felt as if the very air had darkened. She glanced toward the walls, her breath catching in her throat.

And then she saw it. Hidden behind the stone pillars, tucked away in the alcoves—wildfire. Casks of it, stacked and waiting, glinting faintly in the low light. The green shimmer of death.

Her eyes widened in horror, and she opened her mouth to scream a warning, but it was too late.

The arrow came first—a single flaming arrow that cut through the air with a hiss, loosed by one of Wisdom Rossart’s men from the far end of the hall. It struck the nearest cask of wildfire, and for a split second, time seemed to freeze.

Then the world exploded.

The wildfire erupted in a brilliant blaze of green flame, the cask detonating with a force that sent a wave of heat and fire cascading across the hall. The explosion set off a chain reaction, and one by one, the other caches hidden throughout the room ignited. The once-grand hall was transformed into a living inferno, the flames licking up the walls and across the tables, consuming everything in their path.

Screams filled the air as nobles and knights scrambled to flee, their silks and finery catching fire as the green flames spread with terrifying speed. Tables overturned, goblets shattered, and chaos reigned as the court dissolved into panic. The smell of burning flesh and smoke filled the air, thick and suffocating.

Aerys stood at the high table, his wild laughter echoing through the hall as he watched the devastation unfold. “Burn them all!” he cried, his voice rising above the cacophony of screams and flames. “Burn them all!”

You remained seated, a strange calm settling over you as the chaos swirled around you. The heat of the wildfire licked at your skin, but you did not flinch. You lifted your goblet of wine to your lips once more, but the liquid was still tasteless as ever.

Rhaegar, his face pale with horror, grabbed your arm, trying to pull you from your seat. “Y/N, we need to go!” he shouted over the roar of the flames, his eyes wide with panic. “The hall is burning—everyone is burning!”

But you refused to move, your gaze fixed on the flames as they consumed the hall, as they devoured the faces of the guilty and the innocent alike. “No,” you whispered, your voice eerily calm. “I want to watch.”

Rhaegar’s grip tightened, his voice frantic. “You have to move! This is madness!”

You turned to him, your eyes filled with a cold, unyielding determination. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Rhaegar. Don’t you see? It was never about who was guilty or innocent. They’re all guilty now. They all deserve this.”

Rhaegar stared at you, his heart breaking as he realized how far you had fallen into the depths of your grief and rage. “This isn’t justice,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “This is destruction.”

You smiled, a soft, bitter smile. “Sometimes, destruction is the only answer.”

Rhaegar’s hand fell away from your arm, and he took a step back, his expression stricken. The flames continued to rise around you, consuming the hall, but you remained seated, watching as the traitors, the schemers, the guilty all burned before you. It no longer mattered who had killed your son or who had sought to kill you.

They were all guilty now. And they would all burn for it.

Cersei’s world had become a nightmare. The roar of the flames filled her ears, deafening and relentless, as green wildfire consumed everything around her. Her once-beautiful gown now hung in tatters, singed and blackened from the heat. Smoke stung her eyes, her lungs burned with every breath, and all she could hear were the screams—the screams of those dying around her, the wails of terror as they tried in vain to escape the inferno.

She staggered through the hall, her heart pounding in her chest as she searched for her children, her golden-haired babes, but the flames had already devoured everything. Her son had been next to her, pulling at her sleeve only moments ago, but now... now he was gone. Panic gripped her, cold and fierce, as she called out their names, her voice hoarse and ragged. “Joffrey! Myrcella! Tommen!”

There was no answer. Only fire. Only death.

The flames leaped higher, hungry and unstoppable, swallowing the tables and tapestries, the banners of the great houses, as though the gods themselves had unleashed their fury upon the court. In the center of it all, at the high table, King Aerys stood with his arms raised, laughing maniacally, his voice rising above the chaos. “Burn them all! Burn them all!” His eyes gleamed with madness, the light of the wildfire reflected in their violet depths, and he reveled in the carnage, his joy as twisted as the flames themselves.

Cersei’s gaze swept to the high table, and there, amidst the wreckage and ruin, she saw her. The Targaryen princess, seated calmly as though nothing was amiss, a goblet of wine in her hand, her expression serene. She looked untouched by the flames, as if the destruction around her was nothing more than an afterthought. The faintest of smiles played on her lips as she watched the hall burn, the madness in her eyes mirroring her father’s.

But it was Rhaegar’s face that sent a chill through Cersei’s blood. He stood beside his sister-wife, his expression one of sheer horror, his eyes wide and disbelieving. He did not move, did not try to flee, even though the flames raged all around him. His hand hovered near her, as though he was still tethered to her, bound by a devotion that transcended even the madness unfolding before them. He had always been devoted to her, to his dragon. Even now, as everything they had built turned to ash, he could not leave her side.

Cersei’s heart twisted in fury, in despair. Everything she had wanted—everything she had dreamed of—had been stolen from her. Rhaegar, the crown, the power. And now, the children she had borne for Robert—Jamie—those golden-haired innocents who had nothing to do with this madness, were gone too, swallowed by the flames this woman had unleashed.

Her hatred surged, white-hot and blinding, as she staggered forward, her voice cracking with rage. “You!” she screamed, her eyes wild, her hands trembling as she pointed toward the Targaryen princess. “This is your doing! You... you bitch!”

Cersei’s curses echoed through the hall, but Y/N did not flinch. She merely turned her head slightly, her gaze locking with Cersei’s, as if the flames and the screams meant nothing to her. That faint, bitter smile remained on her lips, and she took another slow sip of her wine, unbothered.

“Burn in hell!” Cersei shrieked, her voice raw with grief and fury. “Burn with the rest of them! You—”

Her words were cut off by a deafening roar as another explosion ripped through the hall, the ground beneath her feet trembling with the force of it. The fire surged forward, a wall of green flame that tore through the remaining survivors, devouring everything in its path. Cersei’s world became a blur of heat and smoke, the taste of ash thick on her tongue.

She barely had time to scream before the wildfire found her. The flames engulfed her in an instant, searing her skin, melting the world around her into an endless sea of agony. Her last thought, before the darkness swallowed her, was of Rhaegar’s face—his horror, his devotion—and the serene, untouchable calm of the woman who had destroyed them all.

And then Cersei was gone, swallowed whole by the fire she had cursed.

Jaime raced through the courtyard, his breath ragged, heart pounding in his chest. The smoke billowed into the night sky, a plume of green flame flickering at its heart, the glow so unnatural it seemed to come from the very depths of hell. Screams echoed from within the great hall, carried on the wind like the wails of the damned. He could hear them, high-pitched, desperate, the sound of agony that could not be silenced by stone walls or iron gates.

Ser Gerold Hightower stood like a sentinel before the grand doors, his face set in a grim mask. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard held his ground, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other outstretched as if to bar Jaime’s path. Jaime skidded to a halt before him, panic flashing in his eyes.

"Let me in," Jaime gasped, trying to shove past him, his eyes wide with fear. "Ser Gerold, let me through! My sister—"

Gerold shook his head, his voice low and steady, but there was no comfort in it. "No one can enter, Ser Jaime. It’s too late."

Jaime’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. "You can’t keep me out! The king—my sister—she’s in there!"

Ser Gerold’s expression remained impassive, but the deep lines etched into his face seemed to deepen. "The king gave his orders. No one is to enter until the screams stop."

The screams. Jaime’s blood ran cold at the words. He glanced toward the doors, his heart hammering against his ribs. The screams were everywhere, filling the air, filling his ears, echoing through his skull. And then, just as Gerold had said, they began to fade. One by one, they were snuffed out, like the last gasps of life. And then, finally—silence.

The only sound that remained was the faint crackle of flames and a soft, chilling laughter drifting on the wind. King Aerys’s laughter.

Gerold stepped aside, and without another word, Jaime pushed past him, his hand trembling as it gripped the hilt of his sword. He shoved open the doors, the heavy wood groaning on its hinges, and stepped into a nightmare.

The hall was a blackened ruin. The once-grand tapestries were ash, the banners of noble houses curled into smoldering remnants, their sigils erased from existence. The long tables were overturned, charred and broken, and the bodies—gods, the bodies—were scattered like kindling, some burned beyond recognition, others twisted and frozen in grotesque shapes, caught in their last moments of agony.

The smell of burning flesh hit Jaime like a physical blow, turning his stomach. He forced himself to keep walking, stepping over the charred remains of courtiers and knights alike. He couldn’t find her—couldn’t see Cersei. His heart seized with terror, his eyes scanning the destruction for any sign of golden hair, but all he saw was ruin. The fire had devoured everything, leaving nothing but blackened bones and scorched memories.

At the center of it all, seated as though she were holding court, was the Targaryen princess. She sat still, her face serene, a goblet of wine in her hand, though it had long since emptied. The crown of blue roses Rhaegar had placed on her head earlier that evening still sat delicately upon her brow, untouched by the carnage around her. She didn’t look at the destruction, didn’t flinch from the horrors she had unleashed. Her expression was calm, almost peaceful.

Beside her stood Rhaegar, his face ashen, every line etched with shock and sorrow. His wide, disbelieving eyes flickered between the ruin and the woman at his side, as though he could not fathom how she, the woman he loved, could remain so untouched by the destruction that engulfed them just moments ago. And yet, he did not move away; his hand still hovered near her, torn between reaching out and retreating, his devotion unwavering even in the face of this incomprehensible madness.

And there, sitting on his twisted throne, was King Aerys, his laughter now reduced to a soft, satisfied chuckle, his mad eyes gleaming with the joy of destruction. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest of his chair, as if he were composing some cruel melody to accompany the charred remains of his court.

Jaime stood frozen, unable to move, his mind struggling to comprehend the scale of the devastation. He couldn’t see Cersei. He couldn’t see her, but he knew—deep down, he knew—she was gone. She, and everyone else who had been in this hall, were now nothing more than ashes. Burned whole or reduced to the point of no recognition. The golden-haired children, the proud lords, the scheming ladies—all were gone, consumed by the fire that had claimed the night.

The hall was silent now, save for the faint hiss of dying flames. So different from the water that devoured the House Reyne in its time of reckoning by his House. Jaime’s mind flashed back to the stories he had heard of Castamere, how the rains had washed away the blood and bone, how nothing had remained but silence and ruin. Now, here at Harrenhal, it was the same. But this time the fire had taken everything.

And in the center of it, the Targaryens sat, untouched, unscathed by the inferno they had unleashed.

Jaime took a step forward, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. “Cersei… Father…”

No one answered. Only the flicker of flames greeted him.

His gaze flicked to Y/N, still seated in her chair, her eyes distant, as if she had found peace amidst the destruction. Rhaegar turned his head, his eyes meeting Jaime’s, but the prince said nothing. There was nothing to say. Jaime’s hand clenched into a fist, the weight of his failure crashing down on him. He hadn’t been able to save his sister. He hadn’t even been able to reach her.