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say some nice things in the tags about the person you reblogged this from.

The question strikes him first, not the words, but the tone. It's not hungry, not afraid, and not pleading. Defiant. Always defiant. Geta stands beneath the marble colonnade, the light spilling in long, cold ribbons through the arches. Rome gleams around them, a monument to conquest and cruelty both. And yet, in the fading light, all he can see is her. The princess who will not bow. The girl whose silence weighs heavier than a legion’s roar. He studies her, eyes tracing the sharp line of her jaw, the quiet tremor of her breath, the way the foreign silk clings to her arms like chains. She looks like something carved from marble and moonlight, too proud to break, too beautiful to spare. ❝ Frighten you? ❞ he repeats, and there’s something like amusement ( soft and dangerous) curling at the edge of his voice. He steps closer until the shadow of his cloak swallows hers, the scent of iron and incense closing the space between them. ❝ If I wanted to frighten you, Clarissa, you’d know it. ❞ He pauses then, searching her face, and for a moment, the mask slips. The emperor fades, and the man beneath looks almost unsure. ❝ You think I don’t know what this place does to you, ❞ he says quietly. ❝ You think I don’t see how Rome devours the things it covets.❞ The fountain murmurs again behind her, a sound too soft for the sharpness in his tone. ❝ I could’ve left you there,❞ he continues, voice low, almost confessional. ❝ Let the siege finish what it began. But I didn’t. I took you from Alexandria because, ❞ He cuts himself short. The words catch on something he doesn’t name. Something raw. His gloved hand reaches out, hesitates, then settles lightly against her cheek, not in command, but in disbelief that she’s real, somehow alive. Still looking at him with that same fierce loathing that feels too much like worship turned inside out. ❝ You say you’re not hungry, ❞ he murmurs, thumb brushing her jaw, ❝ but I think you are. For a world that no longer exists. ❞ His gaze darkens. ❝ I destroyed that world, Clarissa. Do not ask me to give it back. ❞ He leans closer, the words softer now, dangerous in their quietness, lethal in their tone. ❝ But here, in my world, you will not starve. ❞

her lips part, then close again. what words could she give him? the court is still humming with the ghost of her scream, her blood still wet against her cheek. she feels every stare of the senators, the weight of their silence pressing into her skin. rome did not miss her. rome stole her. [ and she has not forgiven it. ] she forces her breath to steady, though her ribs ache with the tremor she cannot quite master. and in the silence, memory betrays her. the nile at dusk. her brothers’ laughter drifting over the river. the sound of her mother’s bracelets, gold chiming against gold. a now home, distant, untouchable. [ what has rome ever given her but iron chains dressed as jewels, cruelty softened into vows? ] her gaze lifts to him then, looking at geta. his face is still pale with shock, his hands trembling as if the act of holding her might erase the wound. but his eyes burn too bright, too fevered, too sure. horror, devotion, and something darker knotted into one. he has always been the empire’s child: forged in his father’s shadow, crowned in the ash of cities he cannot name, the senate’s scorn carved into his skin. he is rome. and she, somehow she was a fool to think she could stand before rome without breaking. her voice comes at last, soft and frayed but steady enough to carry. somewhere between his ragged shudders she can make out what he says, broken through tight lips. ❝ you cannot keep what you destroy. you — you could have killed me. ❞ the words fall heavy, bitter, tasting of defiance she barely feels. [ she knows he will twist even this into proof that she belongs to him, that her resistance is only another tether. ] her cheek burns where the blade kissed her. her heart burns worse, knowing he will ask her to bleed again. and when his arms close around her, desperate, unyielding, trembling with something too close to love : she does not know which terrifies her more: his cruelty, or his need.

Soft music played in the background, gilded strings weaving like threads through the marble air. Laughter bounced from one colonnade to another, but Clarissa only heard the quiet beat of her own breath as she stood at her father’s side. A formal introduction to the heirs of Rome at their request. Her name spoken aloud, and then the emperor turned. Younger than she imagined. Beautiful in a way that frightened her. [Eyes like wine and winter.] When he looked at her, his eyes reminded her of the paintings, the rumors. She lowered her gaze, remembering every lesson her mother had whispered before the ball. She dipped into a curtsy, her voice a touch too steady. ❛ An honor, Your Graces.   ❜ Her palms were damp, and something in her chest had gone entirely still. @temperors

His gaze lingered a moment too long, rather not out of politeness, but intrigue. Geta had heard whispers of her beauty, but the girl before him was not the simpering maiden he'd expected. No — she was carved like a secret, eyes lowered yet impossibly aware. A general's daughter. Draped in pale silk. Younger than he'd assumed, but striking all the same. He said nothing at first. Let the moment stretch like a bowstring, just until it trembled. Then, a half-smile ghosted over his lips [charming, deliberate.] ❝ The honor, Lady Clarissa, is mine, ❞ he said, voice rich and smooth, yet steeped in calculation. ❝ Rome is always indebted to its brightest gems and the men who raise them. ❞ His eyes flicked briefly to Acacius, then back to her. ❝ Tell me, do you always carry yourself like a queen, or is it just for tonight? ❞ There was amusement there, yes, but something else lingered beneath. The first move on a board only he could see.

                     𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐀,      with honeyed eyes that narrow at his words,       whispers :       ❛    you wish to be adored,      yet you rule through fear.     ❜       the people on the streets strave but instead geta has adorned yet another circus for them to attend,      &      though he’s draped it in gilded promises for the greatness of rome,   for the sanctity of its empire  —   all fortuna could think is that he sounds foolish to sing his songs as she,   the hostage,   stands against the column.      ❛     you know the people bow to you out of fear.     not out of love.      ❜       —      &      as she turns away from him,      the faint scent of his wine stronger than his conviction,   fortuna curls her fingers       &      her mind ablaze at why he’d care for her opinion as if it mattered at all to him.            ❛      —   you’re a fool to think otherwise.   ❜       @goldengeta

The years grow old — the feasts of his war come to fruit. A grape pressed to his lips, fingers squeezing the juice out of it as he laughs. He can remember years ago. She, the pharaoh's daughter, young and full of wonder when the Roman ships came to Alexandria. A night he doesn't forget, sent alongside his brother in a facade of diplomacy when their father had already made the decree days ago. She had worn red, bloody maroon that painted her soft features with a glow. Deadly. That night, Geta had told Caracalla they had seen a prophetess in the flesh. The prophetess that belonged in Rome. ❛     Why should I listen to the lectures of a hostage?  ❜    He dismissed her, throwing her a half smile before walking closer, stopping her before she could leave. ❛      I only waited conversation. Your company. Yet you wound me so. I who saved your life? Your cruelty knows no bounds my princess.  ❜