dum spiro, spero

There were… a few possibilities tonight, Trouble noted as he sipped his Sex on the Beach. One guy had been eyeing him all night, glancing away from his friends to look Trouble up and down whenever there was a lull in the conversation. Probably not him; he didn’t quite seem to be the type to leave his friends. There was another guy, this one alone, who seemed to be working up the courage to walk over and sit on the stool next to Trouble. 

Then there were the three guys at the end of the bar, who’d been peering at Trouble like he had a third eye growing out of the middle of his head for the past ten minutes. And they didn’t seem to be guys at all. They didn’t look a thing like each other, but they acted exactly the same: staring down their noses at everyone else, spreading out like they owned the goddamn place, lips turned down into the same eternal smirk. And, every now and then out of the corner of Trouble’s eye, he could catch a shimmer of light around them. Like they were boiling the air with no heat at all. 

Fun.

Trouble went back to ignoring them - a pitcher plant, waiting for a fly to buzz in. A spider waiting for the web to tremble. An anglerfish jiggling its lure. Being the bait was as fun as being the hook… even if it did include downing weak cocktails, because the bartender at this joint was usually too spaced out to pay attention. 

There was movement, over by the three assholes. A shift as one of them - the blond one, Trouble noted, and he seemed to be the de facto leader - got up and walked toward Trouble. The unfamiliar asshole sat down on the stool next to Trouble and slid a fresh mai tai over to him. 

“This is your drink, right?” the blond guy said with a self-confident smirk.

Aw. He couldn’t even be bothered to roofie me with the right drink.

Trouble smiled, and took it. “You were paying attention to me?” He took a sip. 

Now that was interesting. The drink was fine - even if it wasn’t what he wanted - but beneath the taste of rum and curaçao, there was something else. A bitter, metallic taste that was barely covered by the alcohol, one that any experienced drinker would have sniffed out immediately. He swallowed without making a face and took another sip. 

Silver.

Interesting. 

Blondie grinned at him. “You caught our eye,” he said - although he didn’t look over at his friends. “Anyway, I didn’t want to bother you too much. Enjoy the drink.” He got up from the stool.

“Wait.” Trouble leaned in close. The guy smelled good, whatever he was - and hungry. As hungry as Trouble was. Angry, too–

No. Hateful.

Fucking interesting. 

Trouble smiled wide. “Thanks for the drink. You want to get to know each other a little better? You could bring your friends over, too…”

“No, thank you,” Blondie said, pulling away. He nodded at the drink. “Enjoy.” 

Well. No use letting a free drink go to waste, even if it was spiked. Trouble’s brain prickled. He  wished he could pull out his phone and search without being too obvious. Instead he just drank the whole thing quickly, downing it in a few minutes. Then he watched the clock. He figured giving it about ten or fifteen minutes more would be fine. 

More people entered the bar. The guy who had been watching him, the one with the larger group, left with his friends. 

The three assholes at the end of the bar stared at him like they were waiting for a hospice patient to die. A rich hospice patient, with a very generous will. 

Trouble licked his lips. Fuck, he was gonna eat well tonight. 

He reached into his pocket and put a wadded up $10 on the bar next to his first empty cocktail glass. Then, he pushed himself off his barstool, and staggered. He put his hand to his forehead. 

He could’ve sworn the three assholes watched him high-fucking-fived each other. Give me a break.

He made his way toward the door, making sure not to draw too much attention to himself, feeling the gazes on his back. If he played it up too much and the bartender stopped him, well. That wouldn’t do. But look too sober… that wouldn’t do, either. He pushed the door open and stepped out into the cool night. 

He only made it a few steps outside before he felt a hand on his waist. He suppressed a smile, and turned to face the assholes who had followed him out. 

“Oh,” he murmured, reaching out and grasping the blond guy’s arm. “Oh, thank god. Hey, I… I think I had a bit too much, will…” He stumbled into the guy’s chest and couldn’t stop himself from taking in a deep breath. Still that same hatred. And excitement now, too. 

The feeling was mutual. This was going to be fun. 

The second guy, with dark hair and a hard mouth, was grinning at Trouble with the most unfiltered, wolf-like expression he’d ever seen. There was rage in him. Sharp, potent rage. 

The third one stepped behind Trouble and hemmed him in. He had the softest features, and Trouble could smell a seething loathing beneath the surface that ran deepest of all. There was something else in him, too, though: a stirring of interest. 

There we go, Trouble thought. You’ll be first, sweetheart. 

He was still holding the blond one’s arm. “I just need to get to my apartment,” he said, leaning in even closer, tilting his head up. “Help me get home? It’s not far.” 

Blondie smiled down at him, like… someone’s parent, to their child that doesn’t yet know the doctor hands out shots, not lollipops, like they promised. “Of course,” he said. “Our car’s just here.” He pointed down the alley. Sure enough, there was a car there, already running. That was nice - it would’ve been too bad if Trouble had to cut this short. And messy. He’d probably have to find a new bar and everything. 

He stumbled down the alley, surrounded on all sides by the… He still didn’t know what they were. Finding out would be fun. He hung on Blondie’s arm, whimpering softly for effect. Fuck, he really was laying it on thick. They seemed to be buying it, though. 

He couldn’t wait to get his teeth in them. 

When they reached the car, he reached for the door with one hand. “Thank you,” he sighed. “Thank you, I can’t believe how nice this is, I–”

The dark-haired one’s hand clamped down on his wrist. Heat poured through Trouble’s chest and he bared his teeth in a grin. “Yeah?” he rasped. 

The guy twisted Trouble’s wrist. He was strong - stronger than a human - but not as strong as Trouble. 

Oh, this was going to be so, so good. 

Trouble followed the pressure and let his knees fold. The other three moved in. The one Trouble had smelled interest on before leaned in closer. He smelled like more than interest now. His mouth might as well have been watering. He reached out with one hand and grasped Trouble’s chin in an iron grip. 

Their eyes all widened at something, then. Trouble couldn’t do much about that now. “You like what you see?” he said softly. 

The one holding his face shook him once, hard. “‘Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do,’” he whispered. “Now that we have found you, demon, your reign of vile sin upon the world is over.” 

Trouble just smiled wider. “Is that a fucking promise, angel?” 

“Lucas,” said the one holding him. “Let’s cuff it, and see if this one proves as belligerent as the other one.” 

The blond one - Lucas, it’s cute that they had names - stepped behind Trouble and cuffed his hands behind his back. Then they yanked him up from his knees, shoved him toward the back of the car, and tossed him into the trunk. 

Continued here

It’s been long enough now that the bright red of the blood has turned brown on his palms. It leaves streaks on Morja’s pants as he rubs his hands over his throbbing knees, working bloodflow into the tingling numbness. Avoids touching where the blood sunk into the fabric, where there is a crust of dried vomit where she threw up on him. 

Morja will be corrected for staining his clothes. 

That thought is far away right now, only able to focus on how Roe will be fine. She will be fine. Morja’s hands twitch in his lap, fingers trying to clench. They can’t, really, the shuddering makes his hands stiff and unreliable and he can’t even dig his nails into his palms. No pain-spike-sharp to make him focus. His skin itches, the brown-red dried and crumbling, falling off in flakes whenever his fingers curl and clench. She will be fine. 

“…Have you tried the grapes yet?” “Oh, are they still in season?” “Some of the markets are still selling but you need to know where to look-“ “What sort of cheese do you think they’d best pair with for the lunch-“

A flutter of silk skirts drift past his eye level, musical chatter up above as though through a high window. Morja clasps his stained hands behind him, bowing his head, bending low, and they do not notice him at all. Morja sinks down on his heels again, kneeing between the pots of shimmering green plants that decorate every pillar. 

The shadows swallow him up again. 

He has been waiting for hours to see an anotéros in charge of rankings here, kneeling just outside of his office. Morja has to see the anotéros in person, has to make sure, to make sure that the Medici know that Roe is promoted high enough, has earned today any treatment she needs. Of course she will, Morja has no doubt. It’s only that- this will all be fine, of course, but it was so sudden. Morja just- just must be responsible for making them know. 

It was supposed to be easy. 

It was supposed to be an easy assignment. Guard the anotéros on a simple, simple, simple trip up to his summer house. Just a formality. Just some extra security while the Senator was away from home, a little trip to the country. He wasn’t important enough to attack. 

No- all anotéros are important, just…it shouldn’t have happened. 

It just- it just shouldn’t have happened. 

Her outfit was ironed perfectly when she left two days ago. Black and crisp, the golden eagle stitched shining over her swelling chest - allowed to wear a uniform. The polished barrel of a Glock 34 holstered at her hip. Morja had never earned a service pistol that young. But then Roe always had better aim with a gun than he. 

Inside his chest there is something sharp and loose that catches as he breathes fast and he swallows, again and again. 

She was fine. 

Morja heard that she didn’t even take any returning fire, quick and clever enough to block her anotéros from the line of sight. She had shot down the gunman from fifty-seven yards, over the effective firing range. She had eliminated the threat efficiently, taking down three men. She had not been taken out, as intended, and she did not let the kidnappers harm the Senator. Did her duty with just an empty cartridge and a single short blade. 

Thought they had me pegged as an easy fight she slurred and Morja had thought it was just her swollen tongue, speaking through a mouth full of blood. Sure showed those fuckers, huh? she had snorted, even with one eye swollen shut, knuckles torn, lower lip nearly split in half when she twisted her mouth into a red smile. Bruised and bloodied and staggering but fine. 

No bullet wounds. No stab wounds. No strangling, no limb loss, no fall. Someone only tried to hit her over the head - she didn’t even drop unconscious, that’s what is stupid, what is wrong, what is not making sense. 

Roe should not have fallen, seizing, from hunched over, vomiting, into collapsing to the tiles. Should not have dropped in her own sick in his lap, tumbling limp, nose streaming, as her muscles jerked her again and again and again across the floor. Her eyes should not have rolled back as Morja had to grip her tight, hold her head against his chest as her body tried to thrash. 

Eleven hours and fifteen minutes. 

Morja’s finger has not stopped tapping his leg, keeping count, a reddish print streaking his pants. Glances down into the stains on his lap. His throat clicks and he has to turn his eyes away, just in time for the door to his anotéros’ office to roll open, heavy wooden doors pulled aside as Morja stands carefully, bows deeply, only long practice at keeping him from a stagger as the familiar bolts of heat at movement shoot through his calves. 

“Oh, diathésímos, you’re still here?” Brushing his sleeves down over his wrists, the bright stones of his cufflinks flashing, crumbs falling from his fingertips onto the marble below, red specks of jam glinting on the corners of his mouth that curls down in a frown as he barely glances sideways. “Someone said you were waiting for an audience this morning. Curfew’s close, isn’t it?” 

Morja’s legs almost buckle, don’t buckle, stiffen like the rest of him as he hurries to keep up with the anotéros’ quick walk through the stabbing sharpness in his thighs, his feet, limbs waking up painfully, cramping, not something that’s on his mind right now. 

“Yes, anotéros. Forgive me, anotéros, I need to- I am making sure that m- a diathésimos is priority in the Valet- the Valetudinaria? This one was wounded in service and only- only honored with a uniform a week ago, anotéros, I need to make sure that the doctors there know that-”

The anotéros sighs, buttoning his waistcoat as he moves through the building and Morja barely remembers to not be too close, not hover at the elbow, keep his distance while trying to say something important. 

“And this involves me, why, exactly? Can’t you ask the Medici those questions?”

“Forgive me, if I’m not called or wounded, I’m not allowed there? I don’t know what happened-“

“Sorry I was late, honey,” The anotéros lifts his hand suddenly in a sharp wave, cutting off Morja’s words that stick against his tongue, jaw clicking shut. Still trailing behind into the bright-lit marble-arched lobby, hovering close, too close, striking close, as the anotéros kisses the cheek of a woman in sweeping silk rising up from a velvet bench. 

A crystal glass of sparkling water in her hand drips beads of moisture off the stem onto the floor, fogging up even in here from the swelling bubble of heat, and it’s eleven hours and eighteen minutes since Morja heard of what is happening to Roe. 

“That stupid business with rigs in Raetea last week has meant a lot more phone calls to my business partners so I had to take lunch in my office. I hope you can forgive me?”

A bright burst of laughter and Morja’s palm feels wet inside suddenly. 

“Oh, I wasn’t waiting too long, don’t worry about it. Not your fault they don’t know how to wipe their own asses without hand-holding, is it? I had someone call ahead so we can still make our spot at the Ganymede?”

“Sounds delicious, I’m starving. They still serve that cabrito there, right?-”

“Anotéros?”

Morja folds to his knees even as the words spill out, cold inside, even though this is important enough to earn a correction from, bending low until his forehead hits the ground. A beat of terrible silence stretches out and if Morja could feel anything but tight-chested he would feel sorry, so sorry, and he shudders with tension, not fear. 

“I’m talking to my wife, diathésimos, if that’s alright with you?” 

“I’m sorry.” Morja chokes out and flinches as a bead of water hits the back of his neck. “Please forgive me, anotéro.”

A higher, short clip of laughter again and Morja swallows a sound as the tip of a glittering shoe nudges his knee. “Oh, don’t be so uptight, baby, I’m sure he didn’t mean to be rude, hmm?” A little tap, too light to be a kick, hits his shoulder and the flare of heat there is swallowed up by desperate gratitude. “Get up, diathésímos, I’m sure it was very important, hmm?” 

“Thank you, anotéros, yes, anotéros, it- it is important-”

Washed over with waves of panic and relief, Morja staggers up onto his feet, posture perfect, keeping afloat by good manners alone. Knows he will wait for as long as superiors want him to wait. And even as he watches them kiss, make plans, ingratitude makes his breath tight and short in that waiting until his anotéros graces him with attention again. A sharp, narrowed glance that Morja would usually kneel under but for being gripped with command to do the opposite. 

“I’ll excuse your rudeness, for now, because it’s unlike you…also, I’ve got a nice evening planned and I’d rather not waste it reminding you of your place.”

“Anotéros, forgive me. It’s- I wouldn’t bother you for anything that wasn’t important.”

“Yes, you’ve said. So…a diathésimos, was it? You said they were shot, injured, what have you?” He waves his hand, shoulders shrugging, and Morja’s heart is so fast and loud in his ears. “I assume that was Senator Amherst’s little trouble he had yesterday night?”

“Yes, anotéros, and his guard- just now wears the eagle, the one who saved his life, by h- by themselves. S-saved his life. Saved an anotéros’ life.” Fuck, Morja’s chest is so tight it’s hard to get breath in and the anotéros’ face is blank and brow burrowed in a way that pushes more words out of Morja’s mouth, tripping over his tongue to make himself understood. “And because- this disthésímos’ station is so new that I don’t know if the Medici will know that this is a- it’s someone they should make sure is getting the- the best.” 

“Well. That is the job, isn’t it. I am very sure, diathésimos, that the guy is getting whatever medical care he deserves.” 

Something presses sharply against the inside of Morja’s chest as that face only looks confused and distant, horror crushing up through his throat as his nails dig deeper and deeper into shaking palms because his anotéros isn’t listening. 

No. No, no, Morja must- he must not be saying it right. Stupid, fucking clumsy, he’s being hard to understand, he must- he needs to explain better that he isn’t asking about himself, he’s not begging for mercy. This is earned. He is asking about a diathésímos who served well, who bled defending a superior. 

Roe is good. 

“Please,” Morja whispers, hands held outward, palm up, in offering. His throat is so dry, hours without water, that his words crack along the absence of any barrier he has before held back. “Please, anotéros, I know I overstep, I accept your anger, I only must know that…that a loyal servant is getting- getting what they deserve. That’s all I ask to know?”

Begging was never something Morja knew how to do right. But even as his anotéros huffs with familiar angered response to the attempt, it works enough. Even through narrowed eyes and a tense body that means he is displeased, the man still digs a phone out of his pocket and taps at the screen, muttering incident report and too high up for this kind of shit. Morja’s hands, not trembling themselves, start to twitch, offendingly, with his shuddering body and he tucks them behind his back again. 

A sharp sideways glance. 

“Well…h- she, it seems, fought off three at once, color me impressed.” 

Yes, yes it is impressive. Worthy. Deserving of honor. His anotéros can see that. 

“Well, that’s a shame. I can understand your interest. She seemed promising.”

Roe is promising. 

“Thank you, anotéros. And she will- will get the amount of care that she needs?” 

“Well, she’s dead, diathésimos. So…frankly, I don’t know what else you want me to do here.”

Dead. 

Morja must really be stupid. The pressure in his chest crushes, tight, can he breathe in? He can’t. It’s because he’s stupid and he’s the one who doesn’t understand. 

“It’s- I didn’t know it was that bad of an injury, anotéros.” Morja says breathlessly, out of air, feeling so stupid that his head hurts. His face hurts. Lips are prickling. “But she’s going to be fine with the right treatment to- to recover?”

The anotéros stops frowning and lifts his eyebrows in a long look at Morja that he doesn’t know how to understand, something like the teachers, what trainers, what other diathésimos look like when they are so, so stupid. 

“She died,” And the words being said are echoing, a little far away under the tinny whine in Morja’s ears. “after something happened to the head, I suppose. Swelling, then a coma, and, well, after all of the scans and tests and such to find that all out, the Medici put no order in for surgery. Weighted cost and all that.”

Morja’s lips tingle, pinpricks racing over the surface of his face. It’s so stupid that he keeps hearing dead. And he must be stupid, he had to be, because he can’t be hearing that she wasn’t saved, it wasn't worth it. And Morja can’t be hearing that, like he can’t breathe in, because those things don’t make sense. 

“Cost?”

A quiet little voice asks that and that certainly didn’t come from Morja’s mouth. His lips just moved and that came out. That’s not what he would say. 

“Diathésímos, I’m late already and I don’t make those sorts of calculations- look, you can ask Medici your questions if you need to…make a report? I’m truly not quite sure what you seem to want from me-”

Roe isn’t just any person. She isn’t new. She doesn’t cause problems anymore. She’s good. Who can’t understand that? She isn’t dead?

Dead?

Dead. 

Morja turns and he runs. 

He’s never run faster, dragged behind carts and chasing a target and resetting his own record on the track, then he runs now to the last place most would run to. He doesn’t hear voices behind him or around him, not even the heavy thud of his own steps, not the sharp drag of his own breath into his lungs. Only the high-pitched hum in his head. He can’t run away from an anotéros and he can’t run through the hallways and he can’t fail to bow to a superior and he can’t be in the Valet and he’s doing all of that. 

It doesn’t matter that he isn’t allowed in the Valet without an appointment because he can push past the bodies at the door. Grip the wrist that crosses his chest, push body against the wall, kick to the leg and there’s a cry and a crumple. 

It doesn’t matter that his sides burn from racing to the terrible building at the back of the compound, sweat-soaked from racing the length of the Castrum Stativa where it’s all steel and pain and sickness and hidden away. 

It doesn’t matter that pushing through a door is met by words like can you be back here (she is here so he has to be here), by a hand grabbing at his arm that is easily bent back, pulled off, shoved away. 

It doesn’t matter that he can’t stalk the corridors, doorway by doorway, to look inside. To look at every face, not hearing whimpers or soft cries or protests at whoever he finds inside that isn’t Roe. 

It doesn’t matter what punishment is coming from everything that isn’t allowed, the tightness in his chest and the numbness in his lips and hands that hurts in a way that numb shouldn’t, it doesn’t matter how ward after ward is empty of her. 

It doesn’t matter if he passes the mortuary to get to other rooms that will have her in them, because she isn’t dead, even if ward after ward is empty of her. 

His tingling feet carry him back to the mortuary and it won’t matter, it doesn’t make sense, because she isn’t here, but Morja can’t- doesn’t- won’t leave any corner of a mission unsearched. 

In this cold room with its bright white light above and its big steel drain below, there is a table. 

The body lying on it shouldn’t be hers. It can’t be hers. Under that white sheet, it might not be. 

But that crumpled pile of a uniform on a tray, that small uniform, is hers. Black belt so unused it lies there in a straight line. Black boots with fresh polish and streaks of dust. And on a black shirt still stiff with starch, the wings of the golden eagle are red, every stitch soaked with blood. And on top of that pile…socks folded into padding, a strip of cloth, and the safety pins that held it all together still in the shape of the chest it was pulled off of. 

Her. 

Morja sucks air in, metal and blood and chemicals, and he can breathe, now, of course, he can breathe. Of course the whining in his ears is gone and silence, so much silence, takes over. It’s his body deciding for him, again, like his feet that take him to her side. Like the hand he reaches out to touch, to curl around the shape of fingers under the sheet. 

Cold and limp. 

His body registers that. 

But the eagle? The uniform? Morja blinks, dry, looks at the pile of clothes. The Medici, the anotéros, they would have seen right away that she was promoted. They would know. 

They should know. 

What does cutting open a head cost? How much does training cost? They say it costs a lot, they say that all the time under boot and whip and needle, they should know. How much value did her skills have? How much does Roe cost? 

“I’m sorry?” 

It’s so loud. It echoes against the tiles. He didn’t yell and, still, the apology fills the room. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He reaches for her head, for the white lump that is her sheet-covered head, and- and he can’t, can’t pull back the cloth, he can’t see her like that. He doesn’t deserve to see, to see blank eyes and a still face and no smile on her mouth. To see the consequences of failing.

Did he not- Morja’s hands curl over her shoulders like he’s steadying her, like he’s giving her a lesson like she was still alive and what lesson could he offer her now, now that she’s stiff and cold? 

I’m so sorry. 

Did he not drill her hard enough? Did he not prepare her? Did he forget a lesson or fuck up some instruction? Did he hold her back, too old and past his prime to teach her well enough? Did he make the same mistakes as with the dog, crying and bloody in his arms before the knife sank deep, the consequence of not making it better? 

Morja rocks forward, whimpering, eyes burning, face dry, sobbing out the apology with no tears, no sounds. 

I’m sorry, chrisímos. I’m sorry, Iris, good boy. I’m so sorry, Roe. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. 

Morja’s knees fail him, failure, failing, even in death, fails her by letting his hands fall from her shoulders, arms falling to his sides instead of curling around her, fails and falls. Stares down with dry eyes into the drain, at his own hands, his broken and scarred hands full of so many lessons that he did not correct. They shake in his lap, stained and weak. 

Cold. Still. Empty. Roe. Dead. 

There’s no joke from the table. No bark of inappropriate laughter. No nudge of her foot against his to communicate when she should be at attention. 

Morja’s hands ball into fists. 

They already took her gun away. The gun. No.  Her gun, gone, no holster left on the table. It…makes sense because somebody else will need it now. It doesn’t make sense because she just got it. 

There’s that push on the inside of his chest. 

Dull, heavy, cold - not the sharp heat of frustration. But he doesn’t curl up on the tiles as it fills his stomach, fills his chest, but sits up. A pressure like water and his breath rushes out all at once with it. Fists so tight now they go hot, familiar sharp nails cutting into the palms. 

Roe…earned that treatment. 

She did earn it is what makes sense here. That makes sense. Roe was younger than Morja to get her first weapon and perfect in every test, perfect in every drill, every assembly of a pistol, every combat move was perfect, perfect, perfect. 

Who of any of the diathésímos but Roe could earn a surgery? Who could be worth the cost of recovery? Who- who was better than Roe?

She was their best servant, first from her barrack to receive the honor of guarding an anotéros’ life and she did her duty on a trip to a summer house. 

Roe died for a summer house. 

Morja rises to his feet. 

“I’m so sorry.” Whispered through cracked lips, it isn’t a whimper anymore but steady, even as his hands still shake. “…not your fault, chrisímos.” 

Morja’s chest heaves and the sob that is pushed out is loud and no tears come. His legs hurt as he straightens up, skin waking up with sharp pricks and burning heat and he hadn’t felt it yet before now. His stomach rolling sickly inside him, his chest aching, his bleeding palms stinging, and he knew it all before but he stands in the cold room and, somehow…he feels the pain and doesn’t just know about it. 

Not your fault. 

His hand passes over the sheet, cups over the top of her head. His chest heaves again and again, faster and faster, his fingers curling over a cold scalp that was so hot when he last touched it. The sheet lies so still and the shape of her face, brave and good, so covered, could be any other face. 

I’m sorry, Roe. 

If he remembered, Morja would think now about handfuls of saltwater to wash this body and strips of bark to dress it and a dance of swirling skirts to take joy in the life that body held. But Morja doesn’t remember any of that; he is far away from the ocean. 

I’m sorry that they failed you.

Morja doesn’t hold her in his arms because if he held her, he couldn’t let go. Morja doesn’t pull the sheet away to see her face because if he saw her, he would fall and could not get up again. 

And Morja doesn’t look back as he turns and walks from the room because if he did look back, he would stay. 

I will not. 

~

glossary:

chrísimos (greek for “useful” and is a term that some diathésímos use as a term of honor and endearment for one another; colloquially, “worthy”)

medici (doctors who upkeep the health and bodies of diathésímos)

valetudinaria (a word describing a Roman military hospital and in New Athens describes where the diathésimos receive medical care)

castra stativa (latin for permanent fortress; a term describing the fortified base for training and encampment of Roman armies and New Athens describes where the diathésímos live)

yeah, so, i broke my own heart with this one, what of it? 💔💔💔 oops, i tripped five years ago and created a character doomed by the narrative 😭😭😭

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