#gladiator x reader

Penthesilea

​Pairing: Geta x Reader x Caracalla

​Summary: Cast as the tragic amazon queen Penthesilea in a rigged Colosseum re-enactment, Y/N is expected to die under the blade of Rome's "Achilles" to satisfy the crowd. The directors even left the champion without a helmet to ensure the tragic finale is fully visible for the imperial box. But they didn't count on one thing: Y/N’s father secretly trained her in the blade since she was a little girl, making her perfectly able to defend herself. Therefore, when she completely shatters the myth by taking Achilles' head, the twin emperors are forced to face a dangerous new variable.

​Warnings: Canon-typical Violence, decapitation (not very graphic tho), possible historical imperfections, a bit of misogyny if you squint your eyes.

​Note: This request was very fun to write as I recently rewatched the movie, but it turned out shorter than I expected. I hope you like it anyway, note that if requested I could try to do a part 2^^

Also,ludus=the official compound where gladiators lived and trained.

The heat radiating from the Colosseum sands was thick,smelling of old blood combined with the collective sweat of fifty thousand spectators. At the very center of the arena,she stood perfectly still. The directors of the games had forced her into a short,knee-length tunic with a blue and white geometric diamond pattern: a theatrical costume imported from the East,specifically chosen for the grim mythological re-enactment she had been cast in. Today,she was forced to play Penthesilea,the tragic amazon queen. In the epic myth, Penthesilea fought valiantly in the Trojan War only to be cut down by the legendary greek hero Achilles,who famously fell in love with her beauty only after he had delivered the fatal blow and looked upon her dying face. The Roman crowd knew the story by heart; they expected a high tragedy show where the woman would fight back just enough to look brave before being brutally slaughtered. To everyone present,she was already a corpse.

Commodus x Maximus's sister

Summary:​ Shortly after her wedding, Y/N is left devastated when her husband suddenly dies of a terrible illness in their shared house in Rome. Desperate to help her heal from the crushing loss,Lucilla brings her to live at the Palatine Palace as a gesture of profound respect for her brother, the great general Maximus.​ But within the golden walls of the court, Y/N's grief collides with the toxic envy of Commodus. He despises her solely because she is Maximus's sister, bearing the same legendary bloodline his father always preferred over him...but what no one expects is that the envy he feels towards Maximus will soon turn into something unexpected.

Warnings: Grief and mourning,Canon-Typical Violence,Toxic Dynamics,a bit of misogyny (typical of the time)

Note: I'm so sorry I disappeared for a while, but I had so many exams that I honestly got writer's block, which essentially took away all my motivation to write. Anyway, I'm gradually trying to get back into it, and this is the first brick of what I hope will be a long line. Also, to avoid rushing things too much, I think I'll have to divide the story into several parts. As always,thank you for sticking with me! ^^"

gladiator ii x reader | lucius verus aurelius x black! fem! reader

thanks to previous rule, relations between rome and numidia have never been worse. blood spilled, villages pillaged, promises broken. it's not long before the two powers are on the verge of all out war. backed by the senate, newly crowned emperor lucius hopes to repair these severed bonds before it is too late. with the arrival of the newly-crowned queen comes a chance for parlay... though she may not be so easy to convince.

OR

emperor lucius falls in love with the queen of numidia while she is on a diplomatic visit to rome.

cw - 18+, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers, takes place in ancient rome, both you and lucius are in your mid-20s, ancient racial tensions, ancient fancy speak, eventual smut.

a/n - had a gladiator itch i needed to scratch. let me know if y'all want a part two.

Gif de caribbean1989

in which the arrival of a new gladiator stirs the ghosts of her past, awakening a dream she thought the gods had resolved giving it no clear ending

CONTAINS: gladiator lore! gladiatorxprincess, violence, mentions of blood, fighting!

NOTE: part three of golden dream!

part 1, part 2, part 3.

my main masterlist! ❀

A few weeks had passed after the last game celebrated in the Colosseum, and the visits to the underground stopped too. You had not been able to see him —not after he had been part of the spectacle that killed one of the dearest souls on this earth. You knew he never wished for that outcome, that he had no choice under Geta’s command… but grief had teeth.

That night, Rome shook.

Outside the palace walls, the people surged like a living tide, shouting, pushing, clashing with the Praetorian guard. Torches lit the darkness like falling stars. The raw chants reached the marble halls.

Inside, you stood with your brothers and Macrinus. Geta stared out the window, jaw tight as the glass rattled with each roar. Then he turned to you sharply.

“What else could I have done?” he demanded. “He and his bitch were plotting against us.”

Across the room, Caracalla was feeding his monkey Dondus dried dates, the little creature perched nervously on his shoulder. Caracalla glanced at the door, at the noise beyond. “Don’t you hear them?” he snapped. “They’re calling for our heads.”

Meanwhile, Macrinus poured himself a calix of wine with deliberate calm, though his eyes —dark, sharp, unsettling— were fixed only on you. As if he already knew everything.

Geta moved closer to Caracalla, voice rising. “The Praetorians will put down this crowd. Like they have every other riot.”

“You brought this on us,” Caracalla shot back. Dondus screeched, mirroring his master’s agitation.

Geta spun around. “Filthy ape!” he barked, and hurled his glass of wine with full force. The cup shattered against a marble column —wine splattering like blood. Dondus yelped and clung to Caracalla’s tunic.

And something inside you broke. “Enough!” All three men froze.

You stepped between your brothers, trembling but unyielding. “Enough,” you repeated, quieter but even sharper. “You can scream, you can blame, you can destroy every cup in this palace, none of that will silence the mob outside. None of that will undo what happened.”

Geta glared, breathing hard. Caracalla’s expression faltered, then shifted into something softer, almost childlike. Even Dondus went still.

You turned to Caracalla. “Come,” you said gently, yet undeniably firm. “We’ll talk.”

He swallowed. Looked at you. Then nodded. But the moment you moved toward the corridor, you heard footsteps falling into rhythm with yours.

Macrinus.

Geta scoffed behind you. “Oh, of course,” he muttered. “Run along, all of you. Pretend the world isn’t collapsing.”

But you didn’t look back. You couldn’t. The three of you stepped into the dimmer, quieter corridor, where the cries of the mob faded to a distant storm.

Caracalla walked at your side, jaw clenched, shoulders tense.

Finally, Caracalla spoke. “This is spiraling out of control,” he murmured. “The Senate is angry, the people are furious, and Geta keeps provoking everyone.”

“And you?” you asked softly. “What do you keep doing?”

Caracalla stopped. Looked at you, pained. “Trying to keep us alive.” A shiver moved along your spine.

Before you could answer, Macrinus stepped forward, hands clasped, voice silked with meaning. “You know,” he said, “it’s interesting… how riots begin with a single death.”

Caracalla turned to him sharply. “What are you implying?”

Macrinus didn’t look at him. “Your brother means to blame you in front of the Senate.”

Caracalla stiffened. “But I did not do it,” he pleaded, breath shaking. “He’s lying! Geta is lying!”

Macrinus tilted his head, almost pitying.

“No testimony is more damning than one brother accusing the other,” he murmured. “And the Senate will listen. They always do when blood blames blood. Which means it is in your power, Caesar, to make a decision before the Senate makes it for you.”

A terrible silence stretched. Caracalla’s face crumpled, not from guilt, but from fear. And for a moment, he looked younger than you had seen him in years.

You stepped between them, voice trembling but sharp.

“Stop this,” you said. “Both of you.”

Caracalla looked at you desperately, as if you were the last thing anchoring him to sanity. You drew a breath, choosing your words with the care of someone walking barefoot over broken glass.

“Macrinus,” you said slowly, “you speak of decisions as if they were weapons, and you hand them out freely, expecting us to swing them. But a true decision is not forged by fear or whispers in dark corridors.”

You placed a hand on Caracalla’s arm, steadying him.

“My brother will not condemn another brother on the word of a man who benefits from their division. And neither will I stand by while Rome tears itself apart because two emperors are too proud or too frightened to speak to each other.”

Macrinus’s jaw tightened; he had not expected resistance from you.

You continued, firmer now:

“If there is a decision to make, it will be made with clarity—not panic. Rome deserves that. We deserve that. And I will not let you”—your gaze cut to Macrinus—“push him into bloodshed simply because chaos suits your purposes.”

Caracalla swallowed, whispering, “Do you think he wants to get rid of me?”

You answered softly, but without hesitation. “I think he wants power. And fear is the easiest throne to sit on.”

Macrinus’s expression flickered: annoyance, then calculation.

He stepped forward, voice velvet-dark. “You misunderstand, Princess. I am merely offering guidance.”

“And I,” you said, lifting your chin, “am reminding you that guidance is not the same as manipulation.” A beat. Then Macrinus smiled—slow, sharp, serpent-like.

“Very well,” he said. “But remember… when decisions are postponed, fate tends to make them for you.”

That midnight, the palace awoke in screams.

You jolted upright, heart hammering, the echo of iron on marble shaking you fully awake. The corridors outside your chamber flickered with torchlight, trembling. Somewhere deeper inside the palace, men were shouting.

You threw on a cloak and rushed toward the salon. When you stepped inside, the world broke.

Caracalla had Geta cornered against the far wall, the edge of a gladius pressed so tightly to his brother’s throat that a thin line of blood already glistened at the blade’s kiss. Geta’s hands were raised, palms trembling in a gesture so uncharacteristically desperate it made your stomach twist.

“Caracalla—brother—please—listen—” Geta gasped.

But Caracalla was beyond reason. His face was contorted, streaked with sweat, eyes swollen with paranoia and fear sharpened into madness.

“You wanted the throne!” he spat. “You wanted Rome for yourself!”

“That's a lie!” Geta cried. “I never, I love you— Caracalla, stop! Please!”

Before you could move, before you could speak, a shape detached itself from the shadows behind them. Macrinus.

You watched, frozen, as he reached out and closed his hand over Caracalla’s —over the hilt of the sword— guiding it, steadying it. “Let me help you, Caesar…” he murmured.

And with a swift, horrifying motion, he dragged the blade across Geta’s throat. A third time, for certainty.

Geta’s breath died in a wet gasp. His knees buckled. His blood sprayed across Caracalla’s chest and hands, hot and bright and final.

You choked on your own scream, a desperate, guttural sound that clawed its way out of your throat before you could stop it. Tears blurred your vision instantly, your body reacting faster than your mind could understand the horror before you.

They turned. Their eyes snapped toward the doorway.

Panicking, you covered your mouth with both hands and stumbled backward just as the shadows swallowed your face. With shaking legs you fled, the hem of your cloak dragging behind you like a ghost’s tail.

You ran into the adjoining chamber —the war room, empty at this hour— and shut the door silently. Only then did you collapse to your knees, pressing your back against the cold wall, trying to stifle the ragged, broken sobs tearing out of you.

Macrinus.

He had done it. He had used Caracalla’s hand to do it.

The room spun. You pressed your forehead to your knees, whispering to no one, to everyone, to the gods: “This is not real… this is not real… please let it not be real…”

But blood had a smell the mind never forgets. And you had smelled it.

You curled up in that dark, empty room, tears soaking your sleeves. Little by little, exhaustion forced your sobs into silence. Your eyelids grew heavy —your body surrendering when your heart could not.

You fell asleep on the cold marble floor, praying that dawn would wake you from this nightmare.

Caracalla stood before the Senate —still stained, though he had scrubbed himself raw— and declared with theatrical grief that his “beloved brother Geta had died in his arms” from a sudden, tragic ailment. Senators murmured, exchanged wary glances, yet none dared contradict the emperor whose voice shook too perfectly, whose eyes brimmed too conveniently.

“And in this hour of mourning,” Caracalla announced, resting a hand on Macrinus’s shoulder, “I place my trust in the only man who has shown unwavering loyalty. Let him stand as my Second Consul.”

Macrinus bowed with studied humility, though behind his eyes smoldered a victory he could barely conceal.

No one mentioned the Praetorian blood still drying on the marble.

You had locked yourself in your apartments for two days. You barely spoke. Your hands shook when servants brushed your hair. You vomited after any attempt to eat. When you slept, you woke screaming, convinced you still heard Geta gasping for breath.

The world had become too sharp, too loud, too dangerous.

You avoided the Senate. You avoided your brother. But you could not avoid the memories. And you could not avoid him.

When you finally returned to the Colosseum’s underground, the torches flickered low, the air cold against your skin as though the walls themselves knew a prince had died nearby.

Hanno was seated on the edge of the stone cot in his cell. He rose instantly when he saw you —his face softening, concern eclipsing every victory, every scar.

“Princess?” he breathed. “It’s been days. I thought—”

Before he finished, something glinted in his hand. A ring. Heavy gold. Worn on the inside from generations. You recognized it immediately: Marcus Aurelius’s ring.

Your breath caught. “Where did you—?”

He stepped closer, slowly, reverently, as though you might break. “It was returned to me,” he said quietly. “My mother gave it to me. Before she—”

You reached out. Your fingers trembled as they touched the ancient gold. The warmth of his hand beneath it. The pulse in his wrist. And then the world cracked open.

A sob tore out of you —raw, primal, unstoppable. Before you could flee, before you could hide, Lucius caught you by the arms and pulled you against him.

You collapsed into his chest, shaking violently while he held you with both arms, tight, unafraid.

“Shh…” he whispered into your hair, lowering his head to yours. “I’ve got you.” His voice was rough, tender, breaking. “You’re safe with me.”

You cried for Geta —your brother, your tormentor, your family.

You cried for Acacius—who died begging the gods to spare Lucilla.

You cried for yourself.

Lucius’s hand stroked the back of your head and his other arm wrapped fully around your waist, pulling you closer. His breathing trembled against your temple.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered suddenly. His voice cracked. “Forgive me. Forgive me for Acacius. For everything I’ve done. I had no choice—princess, I swear to you—I had no choice—”

You lifted your face; tears blurred your vision. His eyes burned with guilt, wet at the corners.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” you whispered. “Everything is falling apart… and you’re the only one left who—”

A metallic clang cut through the silence and Ravi appeared in the doorway. You stiffened automatically; Hanno stepped protectively in front of you.

“Take this ring,” Hanno said, pressing Marcus Aurelius’s seal into Ravi’s palm. “Bring it to General Darius Sextus. Are you listening? He will know it is Acacius’s ring.”

Ravi nodded, though his throat bobbed nervously. “And… whom shall I say sends a ring of such… weight?”

Hanno glanced over his shoulder—at you, still wiping tears from your cheeks with unsteady hands. His voice deepened: “Lucius Verus Aurelius,” he said. “The Prince of Rome.”

Your breath stopped.

“I am summoning the army,” he continued. “To defend the new republic.” Ravi bowed and disappeared into the corridor.

You stood alone in the center of the cell, heart pounding in your ribs, breaths shallow as Lucius turned fully toward you.

“Princess,” he murmured, closing the distance between you. “It’s too dangerous for you to be here. Go. I’ll meet you at the games.”

“Lucius… no, please—”

He cupped your waist in both hands, the touch strong and trembling. “I’ve accepted my past,” he said softly. “Now it’s time to accept our future.”

And then he pulled you to him and kissed you. Like a man starved.

His lips crashed into yours —hot, hungry, claiming you with a desperation he had held inside for years. Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle as he pressed you back against the cold wall. His body pinned you there, breath mixing with yours, the faint taste of salt from your tears on his mouth.

He kissed you deeper, his mouth opening against yours, his hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. His thumb brushed the line of your jaw, lifting your chin so he could kiss you harder, slower, deeper.

A soft sound escaped your throat: half gasp, half surrender.

His lips trailed to your cheek, then back to your mouth, gentler now, as if he were memorizing the shape of you.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. “Go,” he whispered, breath trembling. “I’ll find you again.”

Your hands stayed on his chest a moment longer, feeling the rapid beat of his heart —your name echoing in every pulse.

The sun was merciless that morning—too bright, too gold—mocking the darkness that clung to you like a second skin.

You sat in the seat that should have belonged to Geta. To your right, Caracalla lounged as if nothing had happened, though his eyes were swollen, red-rimmed; rage had eroded him from the inside, leaving a brittle husk of an emperor.

To your left, Aemilia sat stiff and pale, her hands clasped in her lap. You leaned toward her, voice a trembling whisper. “Aemilia… yesterday… I went to see Lucius.”

Her head snapped toward you, eyes widening. “My lady—no. No, no, no, why would you—?”

“He needed me,” you whispered, tears threatening again. “And I—Aemilia, I think I—”

Aemilia pressed your hand hard. “Don’t say it. Not here.”

But the words were already clawing up your throat. The horns blared before you could finish.

The announcer strode into the arena’s center, his voice booming over the sand: “In honor of the acclamation of Emperor Caracalla, the Second Council Macrinus, and our beloved Sweet Princess—” You flinched at the falseness of your title. “—and as punishment for her conspiracy against the Empire, for her calumnies against the Emperor’s sacred bloodline… the Queen shall face divine justice at the hands of the Praetorian Guard!”

The crowd erupted —not in cheers, but in confusion, outrage, disbelief.

“No…” you whispered. “No, no—”

The gate creaked open, a white platform rose from beneath the arena. Lucilla stood atop it —draped in torn white silk, chains coiled around her wrists, her hair falling loose past her shoulders. Vines and flowers wound around the pillar behind her, a grotesque imitation of an altar.

Your breath stopped. “The Queen shall be granted a single champion to defend her… against the justice of Rome! Behold… Hanno!”

The arena exploded. "HAN-NO! HAN-NO! HAN-NO!”

Your nails dug into the marble. When he stepped out—Lucius, Hanno, your Hanno—your heart shattered in your chest. “Please… no…”Your whisper broke into a sob.

Then into a scream. “No! Please no! Cara—Brother, stop it please!”

Aemilia grabbed you, pulling you back into your seat. “Princess—please—control yourself—!”

On your other side, Macrinus leaned forward, his voice a low venomous purr: “Careful, my lady. You’ll make them think you care.”

He smiled directly into your face. You wanted to claw his eyes out.

Down below, Lucilla met her son’s gaze. A nod. A promise. A farewell. Then Lucius looked up at you and nodded. Your knees buckled. Aemilia held you upright.

The gates burst open again and dozens of Praetorians stormed into the arena: shields gleaming, spears raised. The crowd booed so loudly the marble trembled beneath your feet. Lucius didn’t hesitate.

He sprinted toward the first soldier, sliding beneath a spear’s arc, ripping the man’s sword free and driving it into another’s throat. His movements were a blur, devastating, trained by necessity, not privilege.

More gladiators erupted from the side gates, rebels, loyal to Hanno’s whisper, loyal to the memory of Acacius. The arena descended into chaos.

Lucius reached the platform first. He cut down the guards surrounding Lucilla, blood spattering across her white gown like blossoming roses.

“Lucius!” she cried. “My son—”

“Mother, stay behind me!” He fought like a man ready to die, like a man who had already lost too much.

A soldier lunged; Lucius disarmed him with a twist, seized the fallen spear, and hurled it into another guard’s chest. The rebels formed a shield around the platform, protecting queen and champion alike.

You could barely see through your tears; the world was a smear of red and dust and sunlight. Caracalla’s breath hitched beside you. You turned—his face was wet, streaked with tears he didn’t seem to understand.

He whispered, “I didn’t want this…”

But Macrinus stepped behind him, silent as a serpent. Before you could shout —before Caracalla could turn— a sharp metal spike plunged straight into his ear.

Caracalla convulsed, eyes bulging. Dondus the monkey screeched, leaping from his shoulder. The emperor collapsed sideways, blood pooling instantly beneath his cheek.

You screamed.

Aemilia screamed.

Macrinus let the bloodied instrument drop from his fingers with a clink. “Traitors,” he spat.

Then he reached for you. You didn’t think. You ran. Aemilia grabbed your arm, and the two of you sprinted through the imperial corridors as Macrinus shouted orders behind you.

Down in the arena, Lucius lifted his sword —ready to strike the final guard— when a shadow fell across his mother.

Macrinus.

Up in the imperial box, he drew a bow from the fallen Praetorian, the arrow flew before anyone could stop it. It struck Lucilla straight in the chest.

She staggered once —twice— her eyes widening not with fear, but sorrow.

“Go,” she breathed. “Go, my son… Lucius…”

Lucius caught her as her knees buckled, holding her close, blood soaking into his tunic. “No,” he whispered, shaking. “Mother, stay with me—please, stay—”

Her hand lifted weakly, touched his cheek. Then fell.

A roar tore from Lucius’s throat —raw, animal, soul-consuming. He laid her down gently, kissed her forehead…and rose.

The gates were open. A riderless horse galloped in from the chaos outside. Lucius sprinted for it —vaulted onto its back— and with one last look at the burning arena behind him…

He rode for his mother’s vengeance.

And for you.

The moment Macrinus’ arrow struck Lucilla and she collapsed in her son’s arms, the imperial box erupted into chaos. Screams. Sand shifting like a storm. Soldiers pushing through the crowds.

You grabbed Aemilia’s wrist. “Run.”

You both sprinted out of the imperial stand, your sandals slipping on marble dust. Behind you, Praetorians clashed, and from below, the roars of the arena rose like a beast wounded.

“This way, Princess!” A voice boomed from the shadows of a corridor.

A group of senators —old, trembling, their togas stained with sweat and fear— beckoned you. “Rome is splitting in two,” one warned. “Two armies gather outside the walls. One loyal to the Aurelian bloodline… and one to Macrinus.”

A second senator grabbed your shoulders. “Your brothers are gone. Caracalla and Geta both. You are the last living heir.”

Your breath hitched. “I— I don’t—”

“You must ride out as the Empress, child,” another said, almost reverent. “Rome needs a symbol. And you were born to be one.”

They led you through a side entrance out into the open air. The stench of smoke and revolt hung over the city like a veil. In the courtyard below the Servian Wall, there were horses —white as snow, restless, stamping their hooves.

Your breath caught, panic tightening around your ribs. You turned abruptly toward Aemilia, grabbing her hand.

“She’s coming with me,” you declared, voice sharp enough to cut marble. “I won’t go alone. Help me get on the horse — she rides with me.”

One senator blinked, startled. “Prin-Empress, it is customary that—”

“I said help me.” Your tone left no room for ritual, politics, or hesitation.

Another senator bowed his head and hurried to lace his hands into a step for you. “Of course… forgive us, Empress.”

You placed your foot into his hands. “Take my arm,” you whispered to Aemilia.

“I’m right here,” she said, gripping you tightly.

They lifted you first, and as you swung your leg over the white stallion, you reached down and extended your hand.

“Come, Aemilia,” you urged. “Hold on to me. Tonight, we ride together.” She climbed up behind you, wrapping her arms firmly around your waist.

The oldest senator placed his hand over his heart. “Go with the blessing of every ancestor who watches us from the heavens,” he whispered. “And may Mars himself ride at your side.”

“Go,” another said, voice cracking with emotion. “Bring peace back to this bleeding empire… Empress. May every god, old and new, guard your path.”

You nodded, lifting the reins. “Then pray for us,” you murmured. “Pray we’re not too late.”

With a sharp kick, the horse reared —then thundered into the night, carrying you both toward Rome’s burning horizon. The white horse cut through the Roman night like a bolt of lightning.

Wind slapped your face, carrying the scent of smoke, dust, and something metallic —blood, already spilled. Aemilia clung to you, her cheek pressed between your shoulder blades, whispering prayers you could barely hear over the thunder of hooves.

“Do you see that?” she shouted suddenly. You lifted your gaze.

Ahead, torches blazed across the dark hills beyond the city walls. Two armies —two oceans of steel— faced each other beneath the shadow of the great arch that marked Rome’s entrance. Standards snapped violently in the wind. One bore the wolf of the Praetorians. The other… the eagle of the old Aurelian legions.

Lucius’ army.

“He’s here,” you whispered.

“And so is Macrinus,” Aemilia said. Her voice trembled.

You pulled the reins hard, steering the horse toward the slope that overlooked both forces. Soldiers raised their heads as they saw the white mare galloping down the hill.

“Princess!” someone gasped. “The Empress!”

Armor clattered as men stepped aside to make way for you. The moment your boots hit the ground, you were running.

Ahead, in the standoff’s no-man’s-land, stood two figures: Macrinus in imperial blue, spear in hand, and Lucius, bare-armed, blood from the arena still drying on his skin, Hanno’s sword strapped to his back.

Lucius saw you first.

And the relief that crossed his face was so violent, so unguarded, that your knees almost buckled.

But Macrinus turned too, mouth twisting.

“Well,” he drawled, “Rome’s little dove survived the fire.”

Aemilia caught up behind you, panting.

Macrinus lifted his chin. “This is no place for women. Take her—”

“No one touches her.”

Lucius’ voice struck like a blade.

He stepped forward, positioning himself between you and Macrinus. His eyes flickered once to you —checking, reassuring, promising— and then hardened into something lethal as they fixed on Macrinus.

“You murdered the emperor,” Lucius said. “You murdered his brother. And you tried to murder her.”

Macrinus smirked. “I acted for Rome. You're nothing, a man is not converted but his bloodline, but his force”

“You acted for yourself, and I am Lucius Verus Meridius.” Lucius spat. The armies watched, silent, breathless. You took one step forward.

And Macrinus laughed softly. “Careful, Meridius. You may be the last Aurelian alive, but even an empress can die before dawn.”

Lucius’ jaw tightened.

You felt Aemilia’s hands on your shoulders as if steadying you for what you had to become.

“Enough, Macrinus,” you said. Your voice rang through the air, stronger than you expected. “This ends tonight.”

Lucius looked back at you—just enough for the world to soften for the briefest heartbeat. Then torches flared. Shields lifted.

The two armies stood frozen, watching as Lucius and Macrinus stepped forward—alone, drawn by something older than Rome itself. Hatred. Justice. Fate.

Steel clashed against steel, sparks bursting like fireflies between them. Lucius blocked, twisted, and brought his elbow down hard against Macrinus’ jaw. The Prefect stumbled, spitting blood, then counterattacked with a brutal kick that sent Lucius skidding across the dirt.

They closed again—closer, faster, heavier. Their blades became streaks of silver in the torchlight. Macrinus struck low and Lucius deflected high. Lucius seized him by the cloak and slammed him into a marble column of the arch. “Usurper,” Lucius growled.

“Bastard,” Macrinus spat back.

They broke apart—only to collide again like two storms meeting. Macrinus’ fist cracked against Lucius’ ribs. Lucius’ knee smashed into Macrinus’ thigh and their swords locked one last time —then Macrinus wrenched his blade free and kicked Lucius square in the stomach.

Lucius staggered—right at the river’s edge. Macrinus charged, they both went over.

The armies gasped as the two men disappeared into the dark water of the Tiber. A violent splash. A roar of currents.

Underwater, everything was chaos—legs tangling, hands clawing for purchase, blades flashing as they fought to breathe, to kill, to live. Macrinus’ hand closed around Lucius’ throat. Lucius drove his shoulder forward, breaking the hold.

They surfaced, gasping, slamming each other into the rushing water. Then—Lucius’ hand found something sharp beneath the surface.

A broken blade. He lifted it.

Macrinus’ eyes widened. “NO—”

Lucius brought the jagged steel down with all the strength left in his bones. Blood burst into the river.

Macrinus screamed as his hand was severed, the sword dropping from his grasp. The current dragged him, bleeding, flailing, powerless.

Lucius held onto the riverbank vines with his free hand. Macrinus didn’t. His body disappeared beneath the water— then reappeared downstream, lifeless.

Silence fell across the battlefield.

A moment later, Lucius hauled himself out of the river, soaked, bruised, panting but victorious. You didn’t think, you just ran.

Mud splashed around your ankles as you crossed the space between you and him. When you reached him, you threw yourself into his arms with such force that he staggered back a step, but he held you. He held you as if letting go would kill him.

His face buried in your hair. Your fingers clutching his neck. Then he lifted his head. The armies stared.

Lucius kept one arm around you as he stepped forward, chest rising and falling, river water dripping from his jaw. And then he spoke.

“My grandfather, Marcus Aurelius,” he began, voice steady, powerful, “dreamed of what Rome could be.”

The soldiers quieted, leaning closer.

“A dream my father, Maximus Decimus Meridius, died for.” His arm tightened around you. Strength. Claim. Protection.

“An idea… a city for the many. A refuge for those in need.” The torches crackled. The banners swayed.

“A home worth fighting for.”

Silence.

Then one voice cried: “AYE!”

Another answered: “AYE!”

Soon the entire valley shook with the roar of thousands: “AYE! AYE! AYE!”

Hanno, standing near the front line with a crimson-streaked sword, lifted his eyes toward you. In the firelight, you saw the recognition, the relief, the pride blooming in his expression.

As if for the first time, he saw the kingdom he was now bound to defend besides you, his Empress.

Gif de caribbean1989

in which the arrival of a new gladiator stirs the ghosts of her past, awakening a dream she thought the gods had resolved giving it no clear ending

CONTAINS: gladiator lore! gladiatorxprincess, violence, mentions of blood, fighting!

NOTE: part two of golden dream!

part 1, part 2, part 3.

my main masterlist! ❀

Night wrapped itself around Rome like a veil of smoke, muffling the roar that had shaken the Colosseum only hours before. The scent of dust, blood, and trampled flowers still clung to the air as you made your way through the service archway, your hood low, your steps quick.

Every echo felt like it belonged to Geta or Caracalla, like either of your brothers could storm out of the shadows at any moment to ask what business you had in the underground of their empire.

Aemilia had tried to stop you at the door of the Domus. “My lady, it is absurd—if the guards see you—”

But you had pushed past her, heart hammering, Lucilla’s revelations still burning through your ribs like embers. "I know, there would be war."

Hanno was Lucius.

The boy by the river, the reeds, the sweet distant laughter —buried under years of blood and exile. And now he was a gladiator, a killer. A slave forced to bleed for the empire that had stolen everything from him.

You couldn’t breathe until you saw him again.

Two Praetorian guards blocked your path as you approached the lower corridor. “Princess, you must not enter,” the elder warned, lowering his spear. “The gladiators are restless. They smell blood. A woman alone in these tunnels is—”

“Are what? Prey?” you snapped, lifting your chin. “I am the daughter of Emperor Septimio Severo. Sister of now glorious emperors Geta and Caracalla. Move.”

They exchanged a look —fearful, pitying— then stepped aside. At least you knew how to properly use your family's name.

But their warning lingered in the cold air as you descended deeper.The torches flickered dimly. Chains clinked. Somewhere a man groaned in pain; somewhere else, someone laughed with a hollow, broken emptiness that made your stomach twist.

And then you saw him.

Sitting alone on a stone bench near the training pit, Hanno —Lucius— leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His back was streaked with dried blood and sand. Fresh bruises bloomed under the cuts where the rhino’s horn had grazed him, purple and black and angry.

His head was bowed, but even in stillness he radiated a feral tension, like an animal that had survived the hunt only to be thrown back into a cage.

You stopped several paces away, breath catching in your throat.

He didn’t look up.

“You should not be here.”

His voice was low, roughened by exhaustion, but still sharp enough to feel like the edge of a blade. “This place devours the curious. Especially those wearing silk.”

Your heart kicked in your chest. “I— came to see if you were alive.”

A humorless breath escaped him. “Alive,” he repeated. “That is… negotiable.”

He still wouldn’t look at you, and somehow that stung more than if he had spat in your face. He was angry —at Rome, at the world, at the name carved into your bloodline— yet beneath that anger was something else entirely. Something he was trying, and failing, to suppress.

You stepped closer.

“Let me clean your wounds, please Hanno.”

“No.”

“Please.”

Finally, he raised his head—and your breath faltered. His eyes were not Hanno’s eyes. They were Lucius’s, The boy who once braided reeds. The boy who had wept when his father was killed.

The boy whose life had been stolen before he was old enough to understand betrayal.

“You shouldn’t want to help me,” he said softly. “Your family made me what I am.”

“My family?” you whispered. “I had nothing to do with—”

“You bear their name,” he snapped. “You dine under their marble ceilings while we fight animals for sport. While men die screaming for mercy your empire does not give.”

His words lashed like a whip, but instead of shrinking, you knelt down in front of him. He stiffened instantly, as if the very gesture unsettled him.

“You think I don’t know what Rome is?” you whispered, taking his forearm, feeling him flinch at your touch. “You think I don’t see what my brothers become? Rome frightens me, Lucius. It terrifies me. Every day I wake wondering who they will order killed next.”

His jaw tightened. Lucius?

“You speak as though you’re trapped.”

“Aren’t I?” Your voice cracked. “I’m trapped in marble halls while you bleed in pits. Don’t you understand? They own me too.”

You brought a clean cloth to his shoulder wound. He grabbed your wrist, grip firm, almost desperate, but he didn’t push you away. After a long moment, he loosened his hand and let you continue. The silence between you was charged, trembling, alive.

As you cleaned the dried blood from his skin, your fingers brushed the ridge of a scar along his rib. His breath hitched—not from pain, but something far more dangerous.

He looked away quickly.

“This is wrong,” he murmured. “If your brothers find you here—”

“I know,” you said softly. “I know the risk.”

“And yet you came.”

“I had to.”

His chest rose slowly, as though he was holding breath he didn’t dare release. The tension coiled between you so tightly it felt like the whole corridor dimmed around it, leaving only you and him in that charged, forbidden space.

When you finally stood to leave, hands trembling, he spoke without looking at you: “Don’t return here again.”

But you didn’t move toward the exit. Instead, you stepped close enough for him to feel your breath on his cheek. He froze. Absolutely still.

Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“I know who you are, Lucius.”

That night, Lucius was a boy again. The air was different—warm, fragrant, shimmering with the gold of a late afternoon sun. He knew this place even before he saw it.

The river.

He could smell the earth, hear the splash of water over stones, taste the sweetness of figs stolen and eaten barefoot on summer days. He was kneeling at the riverbank, hands wet, weaving reeds together with the clumsy determination of a child. And beside him...

You.

Not as you were now but as a little girl, your hair tied back with a ribbon, your cheeks warm from laughing. You were threading a small crown of reeds, humming to yourself, utterly unaware of the fate that was barreling toward both of you.

You held up the woven crown with triumphant pride. “Look, Lucius! It fits you.”

But as he reached for it, the sunlight flickered—like a candle guttering in the wind.

The river began to darken.

The child-you turned to him again, but your face was older now—your present face, eyes shadowed by the same fear you carried in the Colosseum tunnels.

Your voice trembled. “Run. Run, Lucius.”

The river turned to blood and he jerked awake. His hands curled into fists. Why did the memory return after so many years of burial? He did not want to remember; Remembering opened wounds deeper than any cut he took in the arena.

But the dream clung to him like the scent of smoke —your ribbon, your reeds, your small fingers brushing his as you handed him that childish crown.

Lucius shut his eyes, jaw clenching, anger knotting inside him like a snared animal.

After another gruesome fight for his life in the Colosseum, Lucius was finally being escorted away —a battered victor limping through the stone arches, his skin streaked with blood, dust, and water. You had not meant to cross paths with him again. Truly, you had no desire to step anywhere near the training pits or the subterranean corridors soaked in sweat and desperation.

But Caracalla had ordered a full inspection of the Colosseum’s underground chambers: costs, reinforcements, repairs. And you obeyed when it kept suspicion away.

So you moved quickly through the dim passageways, your sandals whispering over damp stone, your heart still racing from the roar of the crowd. The corridors smelled of metal and wet earth, lanterns flickering with ghostlike tremors.

Aemilia walked behind you, whispering warnings, praying under her breath to every Roman god she knew. Her face was too pale, her fingers fidgeting with the little bronze charm she kept hidden in her sleeve.

“Aemilia?” you murmured.

She shook her head quickly. “Just… walk fast. Please.”

“Aemilia…” you hissed.

She ignored you and whispered faster, the words tumbling out in a trembling stream: “Jupiter, keep her safe… Minerva, veil her… Fortuna, guide her… Mars, hold the boys’ tempers… please, please…”

Then you turned a corner and froze.

Lucius —Hanno— stood there, flanked by two guards. His wrists were chained, but his posture was unbroken, proud even in exhaustion. Sweat mixed with the water dripping from his hair, trailing over the rough lines of his chest. His ribs rose and fell in deep, disciplined breaths.

He saw you instantly.

His entire body actually tensed, his shoulders drawing back, his jaw tightening as though bracing for a blow. Something electric passed through the narrow corridor, so sudden and magnetic that even the guards went momentarily still.

You should have looked away, should have walked on. Should have behaved like the untouchable princess the empire adored.

Instead: "Guards, remove his chains. Aemilia, leave us. Immediately." Aemilia looked at you with worry, but she chose to leave with the Praetorian guards after they had unchained Lucius.

“You fought like you remembered something,” you said quietly.

Your voice echoed softly between the walls. His eyes flashed —blue like deep river water, blue like the memory you still could not name.

He didn’t hesitate. “And you watched me like you wanted something.”

Heat stung your cheeks. Rage, not embarrassment. You lifted your chin sharply. “You forget your place.”

“Do I?” he asked, stepping closer. “I know my place better than you know yours, princess.”

The title dripped from his tongue like venom and invitation. You turned so he wouldn't see the breath he stole from you and strode down the hall with imperial pride that cracked only when your back was fully turned.

The steam clung to him like mist to a statue. His chains had been removed. His back was to you, muscles pressed tight from battle, scars old and new etched like stories across his skin. Water slid down his spine.

Then, descending slowly and deliberately, little by little his strong body was hidden by the almost boiling water. “If you’re here to admire me, princess, at least admit it,” he murmured.

His tone wasn’t cruel: it was languid, sharp with provocation and something darker underneath.

You inhaled sharply. “I am here on imperial business.”

He finally looked at you. And gods, every coherent thought wrenched out of your mind. His body was half-submerged in the water, droplets clinging to his skin, his hair falling in wet black curls across his forehead. A thin cloth rested low on his hips, leaving very little to imagination. Exhaustion made his jaw tighter, his eyes hungrier.

“If you’re truly here on imperial business…” he murmured, lounging deeper into the pool, “…then conduct it from closer.”

Before you could speak, he lifted one hand above the surface and flicked water toward you. Light, deliberate, provocative. He laughed for the first time in her presence.

Oh Gods, what a golden laugh.

“Join me.”

Your pulse tripped. “You forget yourself.”

“On the contrary,” he said, smile crooked, voice a low rumble, “I remember everything.”

You did not move. Not at first. But the silence stretched, molten and fragile, and the truth was that you had come here looking for him. Your robe weighed heavy with steam. Your heartbeat weighed heavier still.

Slowly —too slowly— you loosened the clasp at your collar. Aemilia’s frantic whispered prayers were still fresh in your ears. Minerva, veil her… Fortuna, guide her… But fortune had abandoned the room.

Your robe slipped from your shoulders and fell around your feet like surrendered armor. The cold air enveloped your body, but you didn't feel cold. His attentive gaze kept you warm.

Lucius inhaled sharply, not like an upset man, but admiring. Admiring the sculpture that seemed to have been carved by the gods themselves.

He extended his hand under the water, gaze never leaving yours. When you stepped in, the heat clutched at your skin, swallowing you whole. As you approached him, he rose from where he had been reclining. The ripple of his movement sent small waves against your waist. His body dwarfed the space between you, his breath warm on your cheek.

You turned as if to step past him —some last attempt at dignity— but he caught you by the waist. It was not rough or gentle, it was inevitable.

Your back hit the cold tile with a soft gasp. “Lucius—”

“Don't pretend you don’t feel it,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse. “Pretend anything else, princess. Lie about everything else. But not this.”

The heat of him pressed near yet you couldn’t step away. The water lapped between you, his body a sculpted shadow inches from yours. His thigh slid between your legs with deliberate slowness, and your breath hitched despite every ounce of imperial training you possessed. You felt the heat.

Your fingers curled against your sides. “Move,” you whispered, meaning to command him.

He did move... closer.

“Do you remember,” he murmured, leaning in, “the riverbank near the old palace walls? When we were children? You pushed me in. I pretended I couldn’t swim just to—”

“—just to make me jump after you,. And then I created a crown made of flowers for you,” you finished, something aching in your chest. “Yes. I remember.”

He huffed a soft, broken laugh. “You looked like a little general marching into battle.”

“And you looked like a drowned cat.” His forehead drifted to yours, the air between you thinning into something dangerous.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though your hands had already betrayed you, ghosting over the edge of his jaw. “I shouldn’t—”

“I know. You know” His fingers brushed your cheek, then tucked a damp lock of your hair behind your ear. “But gods, it feels like the only place I’m meant to be.”

The water beaded at the ends of your hair where he touched it, trailing down your neck. You felt him watching every drop.

“I saw Lucilla yesterday,” he said suddenly.

You stiffened. “You… what?”

“She came to the Colosseum. Before the fight.” His jaw clenched, the muscles shifting sharply. “I lashed out at her. She was speaking of my father —of Maximus Decimus Meridius— as if she knew the man.”

“She did know him,” you breathed. “Everyone did. The whole empire felt his shadow.” Your voice softened. “He carried you on his shoulders during the victory parade. You were no older than four. You tugged on his hair so hard he—”

Lucius’ breath caught.

“He did?” His voice trembled, barely audible.

You nodded. “He wouldn’t let anyone scold you. Said you had a right to the world, and he would see you grow strong enough to take it.”

Lucius swallowed hard. Then his thigh pressed more firmly against you, as if memory and desire struck in the same heartbeat. His hand framed your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip as if testing how easily he could claim it.

“Princess…” he murmured, voice thick with something near breaking. You leaned in; Too far, too close.

The guard’s entrance cleaved the air like a sword.

“Princess... Emperor Caracalla approaches!”

Lucius snapped his head toward the sound, jaw flexing, eyes burning with a frustrated fury that almost mirrored your own. You stepped back so abruptly against the wet tile, that your head hit the wall. Your breath was still trembling in your throat, your lips still parted from the almost-kiss that had hovered between you like a dangerous storm.

The steam curled around him as he shifted his weight, the low light catching the lines of his back, the bruises blooming like dark flowers over his ribs. He didn’t look away from you, not immediately. The guard, oblivious to the tension cracking between you, bowed clumsily and retreated.

Lucius’ voice found you first. Low. Rough. Accusing. “Run along. Wouldn’t want your brother to find you where you shouldn’t be.”

The words were sharp, but underneath them something trembled—anger, desire, the memory of how close you had been to touching him.

You escaped the bath, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply he rattled you, and swept out of the bath chamber.

Aemilia, who was waiting nervously by the door, saw that you were completely soaked and wondered something she didn't want to wonder. She looked at you with the most accusing eyes you had ever seen.

"Please, get a dry robe." Aemilia didn't reply, she just froze in place. The guards' footsteps approached.

"Aemilia, hurry!"

You barely made it to the main corridor before Caracalla appeared, obviously with a new robe.

He moved fast —faster than usual, almost eager— with the clipped stride of a man whose mind was already on the spectacle of blood and glory he’d just witnessed. His black cloak swayed behind him as he dismissed servants left and right.

“Sister.” His voice dropped, eyes narrowing just slightly. “What are you doing down here? A princess doesn’t belong in these corridors. They reek of sweat and death.”

Your heart slammed. Does he know? You smoothed your expression into something cool, bored, imperial.

“Inspection,” you said lightly. “You asked for an assessment of the structural damage, earlier today...”

He studied you.

Really studied you.

His eyes dragged down your face, lingered on the flushed pink still staining your cheeks, the uneven rise of your breath. His brow knitted. “You seem… agitated. And why is your air a little wet?”

You forced a smile. “The air is heavy and without even noticing it, the humidity here damped my hair. Nothing more.”

Caracalla stepped closer, too close, as he often did when he sensed secrets. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“Strange. You weren’t this warm when the Emperor of Numidia sent you gold.” A pause. A smirk. “Or when that Armenian prince tried kissing your hand.”

Your stomach twisted. You kept your chin high.

“Are you suggesting something?”

Caracalla shrugged, though his eyes remained piercing. “Only that you look as though you’ve been running. Or… startled.”

Before you could answer, footsteps echoed behind you.

Lucius.

Two guards escorted him past, his wrists newly chained, water dripping in trails down his skin, his hair still wet. He did not look at Caracalla. He looked at you.

Just a flicker —half a second— but it was enough.

Enough for the heat in your chest to flare. Enough for something in him to harden. Enough for Caracalla to sense it. Your brother’s eyebrow arched a fraction. His head tilted. And though he said nothing, the silence became a blade pressed to your throat.

Lucius was dragged away, disappearing into the shadowed corridor, but Caracalla’s gaze followed the disappearing figure with a chilling kind of interest. Then he turned back to you.

“Was he the one fighting like a rabid dog today? The one with the blue eyes?”

Your breath caught —but you kept your voice steady. “Why do you ask?”

Caracalla smiled. Slowly and dangerously.

“Because he looked at you… as if he knew you. And you looked back.”

Your pulse roared in your ears. He stepped even closer, lowering his voice until only you could hear:

“Be careful, sister. Gladiators bite. And I’d hate to see you bad.”

You held his stare and he finally, finally turned away to speak with an officer down the hall. But his suspicion hung in the corridor long after he walked off. And the heat of Lucius’ body still lingered on you.

And in the dawn, it’s the same dream: always the same river shimmering gold beneath the newborn sun, reeds bending like green feathers as the wind combs through them. Always the same two children splashing through the shallows, laughter bursting bright across the banks as though the world were nothing more than warm water and wide sky.

But today, you see him clearly. Dark hair, blue eyes, bare knees muddied, tunic soaked and a grin too wide for his small face. And in his hand a soft white flower, plucked clumsily, held out to you with all the solemnity of a sacred vow.

The river ripples and darkens. The reeds around your ankles turn to shadows. And somewhere far away, faint as a breath through a keyhole, a voice whispers: “Princess… princess… Wake up.”

You jerk upright.

Helvia, one of your bed ancillae, stands beside your bed, pale in the half-light, her hands trembling as she holds out your sandals.

“Princess, forgive me, there’s no time. It’s an emergency. We must go.”

“What happened?” you demand, letting her pull a light robe over your shoulders.

“I—I don’t know. The Praetorian officers only said the princes were already waiting.” Her voice falters. “They looked… distressed.”

That alone chills your blood. Your brothers do not frighten easily. Nor wake easily. Helvia escorts you swiftly down the marble corridor, which hums with anxious footsteps and muffled orders. Servants scurry like startled birds. Torches still flicker orange —the sun has not yet risen.

When you enter the main atrium outside the Senate wing, Caracalla and Geta are already there. Both unbelted and bleary-eyed. Geta spots you first. “You’re late,” he snaps, though his voice cracks with exhaustion.

“Wake me earlier next time,” you retort, trying to keep your voice steady. “What’s happened?”

Caracalla exhales through his nose, sharp as a blade. “Not here. Walk.”

The guards fall into formation instantly, surrounding the three of you as you move through the colonnade toward the Hall of Thrones. Cold morning air slices through the open arches. The sky is still bruised blue and purple, the sun only a rumor on the horizon.

Geta rubs his eyes as he walks. “I swear, if this is another false alarm from the African legions—”

“It isn’t,” Caracalla mutters.

“How do you know?” you ask, heart drumming harder than footsteps on the marble.

Caracalla doesn’t look at you. His jaw clenches. “Because the message arrived by imperial seal. Not by messenger. Someone inside the palace delivered it.”

Geta curses under his breath. “That means treason. Sister, do you know anything?”

“I know nothing,” you reply calmly. “But clearly someone wants the imperial family frightened.”

“We’re past frightened,” Caracalla mutters. “Look at us, we look like ghosts dragged from our beds.”

“One ghost,” Caracalla insists, pointing to you. “Two ghosts.” Then, with a mocking flourish, he gestures to Geta. “And one demon from the deepest pit of the Underworld.”

Despite everything, a tiny, fragile smile touches your lips. “This is no time for jokes,” Geta says. “The message was sealed with an emblem we haven’t seen since the old wars.”

Your stomach drops. “What emblem?”

“Maximus Decimus Meridius.”

The moment collapses in on itself the instant Lucilla and Justus Acacius materialise in the hall. They do not simply enter, they burst into the marble vastness, their footsteps echoing like a warning bell. Your breath stops. For a heartbeat, no one moves.

Even the Praetorian guards hesitate. A ripple of unease passes between them.

Caracalla’s face, usually so easy to read, becomes a sealed monument. Stone. But in the hard glint of his eyes you recognise something he has not shown since childhood: fear dressed as fury.

And then Thraex appears behind the pair, swaggering as though he were on a stage. “Thanks to the civic virtue of I, myself,” he declares, puffing up his chest, “and of Macrinus, their insurrection has been revealed.”

You blink, stunned. “What are you even talking about?”

Lucilla sways as if the words were a physical blow. Acacius steadies her gently, and for a moment there is a raw, startling tenderness between them.

Thraex continues, his voice oily with self-importance. “The honour —the dignitas— that Rome bestowed upon the General and his woman… all this, they have forfeited by their treachery.”

“So you were plotting against us, dear ones…” Geta drawls, his tone cold enough to frost the walls. “Not very nice of you to—”

Acacius cuts him off sharply. “Please, Emperor. Torture me all you want—just don’t lecture me.”

The insolence is too much for your brother. He explodes. “Your names will be forgotten!” Geta roars, fists trembling.

The sound slams into the columns. You snap back at him without thinking. “Do not shout at him, please!”

Geta turns, and before you can even register the movement, the slap cracks across your cheek. The sting is instantaneous; your vision flashes white.

Lucilla breaks free from the guards and runs toward you, hands trembling as she cups your face. “It’s all right... Look at me, look at me,” she whispers, voice breaking.

Geta is not done. His anger spirals, out of control, almost delirious. “Lost to History!” he spits at Acacius. “You are damned, General.”

Acacius, with blood rising on his cheek where the guards struck him, laughs. A low, fearless, reckless laugh. “You damn me?” he says. “I don’t care. Empires fall… and so do Emperors.”

Caracalla has heard enough. He grabs a gladius from one of the guards, the metal scraping sharply as he draws it. He points it at Acacius, eyes burning.

“His death must be public,” he growls. “I demand it!”

He lunges forward, but you throw yourself between them, hands on his chest. “Stop, Caracalla, stop! He raised us and—”

He shoves past you, wild with rage. “Lucilla... Crucify her.”

Lucilla gasps. The guards seize her and Acacius at once, dragging them backward as they struggle: not screaming, not begging, but staring at you with a kind of quiet, doomed clarity. Acacius meets your eyes, and in them you read both apology and defiance.

They are hauled away.

And then, like a shadow sliding into place, Macrinus enters the hall.

Geta rushes to him. “Prefect!” he cries, and embraces him tightly, relief spilling out of him. Macrinus hugs him back with practiced ease, murmuring praises and reassurances.

But over Geta’s shoulder, the Prefect’s eyes lift. They meet yours.

He simply stares. A slow, knowing stare that chills your bones.

Macrinus knows something. And whatever he knows, it is about you.

A week had passed since Lucilla and Justus Acacius were imprisoned. Seven days of dread. Seven days of sleepless nights. Seven days in which your footsteps carried you again and again into that shadowed labyrinth, where Lucius waited behind iron bars, bruised and patient and unbearably gentle whenever he saw you approaching.

The gladiator and the princess stopped being two planets kept in orbit by duty and danger, and instead began to fall into each other’s gravity.

He learned the way your voice tightened when you lied out of fear. You learned that he hummed under his breath when he was thinking.

By the seventh day, the fear wasn’t whether your brothers would find out. The fear was how deeply he already knew you.

You had managed to visit Lucilla and Justus once under the eyes of twenty Praetorian guards stationed outside their domus, transforming their home into a fortress of despair. Lucilla had tried to smile for you. Acacius had pretended not to be in pain.

Neither deception fooled you.

Now you were being escorted to the Colosseum for yet another set of games your brothers insisted on attending. Aemilia, silent and watchful, walked at your side as the sunlight hit the sand-coloured stones of the Colosseum.

The roar of the Romans inside could already be heard —anticipation, hunger, excitement. But none of it reached you.

But before you can enter the imperial box, a hand clamps around your forearm. His grip is firm, politely vicious, and his eyes glint with the cruel satisfaction of someone who has waited years to catch another breathing wrong.

Macrinus.

“Servant,” he says without looking at Aemilia, “leave us.”

Your maid freezes. You nod once —reluctantly— and she steps back.

Macrinus leans close. “Princess,” he murmurs, dripping honey, “you have been very… charitable with your time lately.”

Your pulse spikes. “Let go of me.”

He does not. “Seven days of visits to the dungeons? Seven days of entering restricted corridors? Seven days in which the traitors’ daughter and the traitors’ favorite gladiator received an imperial visitor.” His smile sharpens. “How curious.”

“That is not treason.”

“No,” he replies softly, “but incubating it most certainly is.”

Your breath stutters—but you lift your chin. “What do you want, Macrinus?”

His eyes glitter, pupils shrinking with ambition. “Rome deserves rulers who are not softened by sentiment. Your brothers are too wild, too emotional. You…” He studies your face. “You could be reason. If you stand with me.”

“I would burn Rome before standing with you.”

He chuckles. “As I expected. Still, I thought it fair to offer you your future.”

Before he can say more, a familiar voice cuts through the tension. “Is something wrong here?” Geta appears behind you, rubbing his neck, his expression still harmlessly drowsy —but his stance is alert. Macrinus releases your arm instantly, the venom evaporating into a friendly, harmless smile.

“Nothing at all, Caesar,” Macrinus lies easily. “Just wishing your sister a pleasant morning.”

Geta frowns, glances between you both, but says nothing more. Together, you enter the imperial box, and the crowd roars. The Praetorian Guard spreads across the stands more thickly than usual. Aemilia shivers besides you; something is planned.

At your right, you see Lucilla dragged into her seat, shackled like an animal. Her cheeks are hollowed from sleeplessness. You rush to her side.

“Lucilla—”

She shakes her head feverishly, eyes wild. “Don’t—don’t speak to me now. Not here.”

Before you can answer, Caracalla’s hand closes around your shoulder. “Sister,” he says through his teeth, “sit. Now.”

He guides you firmly to your place —between him and Geta. A position of honor. You glance around the Imperal Box and find that Acacius is nowhere. How weird, you thought.

A trumpet blares. The announcer steps forward. “For his treason against the Roman Imperial Family… GENERAL JUSTUS ACACIUS—enemy of the people!”

The crowd erupts not in approval, but in fury. “We love you Acacius!”

Four gladiators wait in the arena, blades gleaming under the sun. The gate opens.

Acacius emerges, walking toward certain death with the poise of a man who has chosen defiance as his last armor. Lucilla sobs behind you, a sound so raw it slices your ribs open.

The fight is brutal, fast and terrifying, just as your two brothers like it. But suddenly, when you are somehow distracted by it all, Acacius does the impossible: he kills all four.

Before the crowd can process the miracle, the announcer calls again: “From the vanquished city of Numidia… the victor of two conquests in the Colosseum… Hanno!”

The arena explodes into cheers: people rise to their feet and the sand sprays from the impact of their stomping.

You choke on air. Tears prick hot behind your eyes. You turn to Lucilla. She cannot speak —not with chains bruising her wrists and grief choking her throat— but she moves her lips, barely.

A single desperate, broken phrase: “Save him.”

When you face the arena again, Caracalla and Geta are leaning over you. Caracalla’s smile is a razor: “Little sister… did you think we wouldn’t discover your secret meetings with the little bastard?”

Geta snorts. “Enjoy the view.”

Hanno steps into the sunlight, sword in hand. Dust hangs suspended in the still air. His skin is streaked with dried blood and fresh sweat, and yet he looks —impossibly— like something carved from ancient marble and stubborn defiance. Every muscle in his back moves with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator emerging from the dark.

He walks to the center of the arena, and the world narrows around him, the roar of the crowd fading into a distant rumble, the sand moving like a shallow tide under his feet.

Then he raises his head. His eyes glide straight past the emperor, the heirs, the Praetorian Guard standing stiff as iron sculptures. They find you.

And everything inside you jolts at once: your breath, your pulse, the very ground beneath your sandals. Your fingers curl in your lap without meaning to; a tremor runs up your spine that has nothing to do with fear.

Then —slowly, almost ceremonially— he lifts his sword. Not in bloodlust. Not in submission. Not in victory. But in devotion. The gesture is small, almost subtle, and yet the entire Colosseum reacts at once; Thousands of lungs gasping in unison, a wave of disbelief sweeping through the stands.

Even the lions in their cages seem to fall silent, as though the whole world is watching this forbidden line being drawn in the sand. Hanno takes one step forward.

“Let the gods decide,” he calls, voice ringing out across the amphitheater like a thrown blade.

Acacius raises a hand, desperation cracking through his composure. “Lucius—wait—!”

But the gates slam shut. Drums pound. The sun blazes. The fight begins.

They circle each other like two storms about to collide. Sand lifts from under their feet. The crowd holds its breath. Hanno strikes first: clean, sharp, a slash meant to test, not kill. Acacius moves. They move again, faster this time, metal clashing against metal, sparks flying.

Then a second gladiator’s fallen blade lies half-buried in the sand near Hanno’s foot. Acacius sees it a second too late. Hanno kicks it up with the tip of his toe, catches it mid-air.

Lucilla grips her chains until her knuckles turn white. You can barely breathe.

Acacius backs up, dust swirling around him. Even exhausted, he moves with the precision of a general trained to kill and to lead. His blade skims Hanno’s ribs, drawing blood.

Hanno snarls. The cut only sharpens him.

Now he moves as if the gods themselves possessed him —two blades slicing through the air in arcs of sunlight and fury. Acacius blocks one, dodges the second, but Hanno is relentless. The rhythm is brutal, beautiful.

And then—

Acacius stops fighting.

He tears himself free of the lock, not to continue but to step back. He lifts his blade… and then lowers it entirely. He turns slowly toward the crowd, raising his free hand in salute.

Acacius kneels. A full, absolute surrender. His voice carries, ragged but unbroken: “Lucius Verus Aurelius.”

Lucilla screams his name.

High above, Geta stands. He draws in a long, theatrical inhale, raises his arm toward the sky, and closes his eyes as though he were communing with Olympus itself. Minutes drag and you cannot help but shake.

Then Geta speaks, voice booming through the amphitheater: “The gods have rendered their judgment.”

His fist drops... The signal for death.

“No— No!” Lucilla cries, trying to rise though her chains dig into her wrists.

You collapse to your knees, grabbing at Geta’s robe so hard the fabric wrinkles under your hands. “Brother, please —if you ever loved me, do not do this. I beg you!” Tears streak your cheeks, falling to the marble. “He is no traitor—he surrendered! Have mercy, have mercy.”

Caracalla scoffs from your left. “Pathetic.”

Geta looks down at you, jaw tightening, but for a moment —just a moment— uncertainty flickers in his eyes.

Acacius, kneeling in the blood-soaked sand, lifts his chin and speaks with the calm of a man who has already walked into the afterlife: “Do what you must.”

He looks at Lucilla. Then at you. Then at the brothers who will kill him.

“But know this.” His voice softens. “I loved your mother, Lucilla… with a loyalty I owed to no emperor. And your father… Maximus.” He places a hand over his heart. “I would have died for him.”

Caracalla explodes. “Kill him! Kill him!”

Hanno’s swords tremble in his hands and his body moves first, not to strike, but to reject the order entirely. He throws both blades to the sand and kneels beside Acacius.

Geta’s face turns to stone. He snaps his fingers. “Archers.” The Praetorians appear like a dark tide, bows drawn, arrows aimed directly at Acacius’s chest.

You scream. Lucilla screams. Everyone screams.

The arrows fly. They strike Acacius with violent thumps —one, two, three— his body jerks, then stills, slumping forward into the sand as though bowing to Rome a final time.

Lucilla lunges against her chains until blood runs down her wrists. Then, with a voice shredded by grief, she spits at both emperors: “Damn you both! Death will be too good for you.”

in which the arrival of a new gladiator stirs the ghosts of her past, awakening a dream she thought the gods had resolved giving it no clear ending.

CONTAINS: gladiator lore! gladiatorxprincess, violence, mentions of blood, fighting!

NOTE: i wrote this because I’m absolutely obsessed with Gladiator once again (and now Gladiator II, obviously). Rome and poor handsome men in armor has stirred something in me :)

part 1, part 2, part 3.

my main masterlist! ❀

The dream repeated itself each sleep, always the same river shimmering gold beneath the sun, always the same two children splashing through reeds and laughing as though the world were nothing more than warm water and wide sky.

She was small, unburdened by titles, and beside her was him —the boy whose face she could never clearly see, always blurred at the edges as if the gods refused to let memory sharpen into recognition.

His voice was gentle, a melody she tried to hold onto when she awoke, but daylight stole it every time. And at the end, as always, he plucked a pale wildflower growing between the river rocks and placed it carefully in her small hand, his touch tender, certain, almost reverent.

She would look up, ready to finally see him—ready for the revelation her heart ached for—but the dream ended there, abruptly, cruelly, before she ever recognized him. Each morning she awoke with the ghost of a flower in her palm and the strange, aching certainty that the boy still lived somewhere in Rome.

Waking up meant being included in the Severan Dynasty, a privilege that felt more like a burden than an honor. Every morning she was reminded of her lineage the moment servants opened her curtains, sunlight flooding her chamber as if Rome itself demanded she rise and perform her duty.

She was a daughter of emperors, a sister to co-rulers, a political ornament raised to be seen, studied, bartered, and obeyed.

Geta expected loyalty, Caracalla expected silence, and the Senate expected usefulness; all of Rome expected perfection.

Her tutors spoke of diplomacy, her aunts whispered about marriage alliances, and every senator who kissed her hand measured her worth in what she could offer the empire. Yet beneath the layers of silk and jewels, she carried the lingering imprint of the same dream.

And though she tried to focus on the day’s duties—council meetings, public processions, negotiations at her cousins’ side—she walked with the inexplicable sensation that he was out there, somewhere in the city, breathing the same air, bleeding the same dust.

Geta and Caracalla were already bickering before the carriage even rolled to a stop, their voices low but sharp — the same petty dispute that had followed them since childhood.

“You lost the scroll,” Geta hissed.

“No, you misplaced it,” Caracalla snapped back. You drifted out of their argument, your gaze softening as your thoughts slipped elsewhere —back to the dream that haunted every night, the river, the boy, the flower.

“Sister,” Caracalla nudged you as the vehicle slowed, “you’re staring into the ether again.”

Geta extended a hand to help you down, adding under his breath, “What were you thinking about this time? Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with philosophy.”

You only shook your head with a faint smile, your silk hem brushing the marble steps as Aemilia, your ancillae and closest confidante, followed closely behind.

“She dreams,” Aemilia murmured knowingly, earning a suspicious glance from Geta. “Dreams are harmless,” she added quickly.

“Not in this family,” Caracalla muttered.

The villa doors opened before you, swallowing all four of you in a swell of heat, perfume, and music. Inside, bodies pressed together in a crowded feast, an orchestra layering the air with flutes, lyres, and the deep pulse of drums.

At the far end of the atrium, Senator Thraex raised his arms theatrically. “Stand back! Stand back! My emperors and our princess!” he cried. “Lords, ladies, gentlemen, and senators —honor them with your attention.”

A wave of applause erupted as you were led to a long reclining couch —the place of honor— your brothers settling at your sides. Almost immediately, slaves straddled their laps with practiced ease. You felt your stomach turn, your expression stiffening.

Aemilia noticed and knelt discretely near your feet, her eyes mirroring your disgust.

“For your entertainment,” the senator boomed again, “the art of combat!”

The crowd cheered; you did not. Nor did Aemilia, who muttered under her breath, “Blood for pleasure… savagery.” You exhaled slowly, jaw tightening.

“May I present the barbarian,” Thraex announced, “versus my own stable — the mighty Vichek!” Gasps shuddered through the room as Vichek emerged, monstrous in size, guards struggling to restrain him. And then the other man stepped forward —the barbarian.

A hush fell around you as your eyes locked onto him: a tall figure with a sun-browned body carved by hardship, shoulders broad, stomach firm, scars curving like constellations across his skin. His hair was dark, unbound, falling in waves that brushed his jaw. But it was his eyes —blue, impossibly blue— that rooted you where you sat.

Cold. Haunted. Beautiful. Familiar.

Your breath caught, your pulse flickering painfully. Something inside you recognized him, as if the river of your dreams had suddenly spilled into waking life.

Aemilia leaned in, whispering, “Princess… are you well? You’ve gone pale.”

You didn’t answer. Because he was looking at you —the barbarian— his gaze cutting through the noise, the torches, the distance, as though he too remembered something he could not name.

Your brother Caracalla cut through your uneasiness with a sharp, leaning forward as the tension in the atrium thickened. “We want swords,” he demanded, eyes gleaming with cruel entertainment. “Three rounds. Hand to hand. A fight to the death.”

He punctuated the decree with a slap across the cheek of the servant perched on his lap. The boy flinched and then smiled, grateful for the attention, for the acknowledgment from an emperor.

Caracalla smirked, satisfied. “Fight now!”

Soldiers stepped in immediately, placing a gladius in each fighter’s hand. The barbarian —those impossible blue eyes never leaving the ground— whispered hoarsely, “Brother… let’s not kill each other for their amusement.”

A plea. A memory of something human.

But Vichek lunged at him like a starved beast, all muscle and fury, and the barbarian pivoted with startling swiftness, slicing Vichek’s arm open in a spray of blood. Gasps erupted around you; Aemilia grabbed your hand.

Across the room, Macrinus jerked forward in his chair, his presence a shadow you had not noticed earlier. The former gladiator, now a powerful owner of men. Your father’s old friend, and one of the few you had never learned to trust. His dark eyes followed every movement with unsettling hunger.

After all, it was his gladiator who was in danger.

The crowd roared as the gladiators collided again, the barbarian’s body hitting a marble pillar so hard you heard the crack. Vichek charged, smashing him across the table, cups and figs and silver plates scattering. But the barbarian rose, seized a heavy clay vase, and shattered it against Vichek’s skull, the impact echoing like thunder.

People cheered, the music swelled, your brothers were laughing —yet you could barely breathe. Blood trickled down the barbarian’s tunic, mingling with the dust, his grip tightening on the sword as Vichek staggered.

One final move and the barbarian’s blade plunged deep into Vichek’s torso. A sharp, wet sound. Vichek collapsed to his knees, then to the floor, dead before his body fully realized it. Silence rippled through the room before erupting into triumphant applause.

All except you.

Because the barbarian lifted his head, breath heaving, blood on his face and his eyes found yours again.

“What a spectacular fight,” Emperor Geta announced, finishing his dramatic applause as he strode toward the dark-haired man standing amid shattered clay and spilled wine. “What’s your name, slave?”

The room fell so silent you could hear the armor of your guards shift with every breath. The barbarian lifted his chin, unflinching. Before he could speak, Macrinus quickly stepped forward, bowing.

“Hanno is his name, Caesar. He only speaks his native tongue, Caesar.” Geta hummed thoughtfully, savoring the weight of authority on his tongue, when the gladiator unexpectedly broke the script.

Hanno, you repeated to your inside. That's his name.

Then suddenly he approached your brother, smiling faintly. He began to recite a poem… a well-known poem.

“The gates of Hell are open night and day; smooth the descent, and easy the way. But to return, and view the cheerful skies— in this the task and mighty labor lies,” voice low yet cutting through the silence like a blade.

Gasps rippled. “So Hanno is a poet too,” Geta snorted, a dry, brittle laugh.

“Brother, don’t be rude,” you said, your voice slipped out quieter than you intended.

“Can’t wait to see how you are in the arena… Hanno,” Geta added, dismissing him with a last, lingering glare before turning away. But Hanno didn’t look after him. He looked at you.

Later, when the household gathered to eat, the tension from earlier still simmered. The joke —Geta’s mocking laugh, the snide “So Hanno is a poet too”— had been meant to cut Hanno, not you. But the moment had seeded something poisonous in the air.

You felt it growing now.

As the group prepared to leave the villa for the forum, Aemilia fell into step behind you.

“Aemilia?” You murmured. "What did you hear?”

“Enough.” Her breath hitched. “They think Hanno is insolent. That he’s too bold with the empire’s enemies. They were talking about loyalty… and punishment. And they said your name.”

Ice slid through your stomach.

Your brothers rushed ahead toward the imperial box, practically vibrating with excitement for the new games; well, they were excited: Caracalla humming under his breath like a man preparing for a feast, Geta bouncing on the balls of his feet like a boy about to open a gift.

You simply followed, your heartbeat quieter, your thoughts louder. Ever since the party at Thraex’s domus, you had been replaying the way the barbarian’s blue eyes had locked onto yours —unflinching, unsettling, unforgettable.

When you stepped into the royal box, the announcer’s booming voice filled the Colosseum. “Emperor Caracalla! Emperor Geta!” Your brothers raised their hands triumphantly as the crowd roared.

“And Rome’s delight —our Princess!” A wave of sound hit you: “Gods have mercy on her!” “Our beautiful angel!” You could feel the devotion of the people like sunlight on your skin; they saw you as the hope among your calculating brothers, the lone softness in a dynasty of blades.

The announcer continued, “These sacred games are held to honor the victory of Rome over the barbarians of Numidia!” Louder jeers filled the air, but you froze.

Numidia.

Wasn’t that where the blue-eyed barbarian came from?

“And to honor Rome’s legionary commander, General Justus Acacius and with him Lucilla, daughter of Emperor Marcus Aurelius!” The cheers doubled: “Mother of Rome!” “Bless her!”

You loved them both. Your father’s dearest friends, and after his death, your protectors. They bowed to the crowd, then to your brothers, and when they reached you, you immediately rose to embrace them.

Lucilla held your face gently. “You shine brighter every time I see you,” she murmured.

Acacius pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Your father would be proud. Stay close to us today.”

You simply smiled, feeling the tourturing gaze from your brothers.

The announcer roared again, “From the South Gate, fighters from the stable of Macrinus of Thysdrus!”

Dust swirled like smoke, the gates groaned open… and then he appeared. Him. Hanno. The man whose stare haunted your nights. He walked first, the others trailing behind him like shadows.

He wore a battered leather harness strapped across his chest, metal studs glinting beneath the sun, his skin streaked with fresh oil and old scars.

A wolf-pelt shoulder guard sat over one arm, the fur brushing his neck. His muscles tensed with every step, carved like marble, veins raised from the heat and strain. Sweat trickled down the line of his throat.

Fucking Gods.

He moved with a predatory grace —half storm, half prayer. When his face lifted toward the imperial box, your breath caught, your spine stiffening as though struck by lightning.

But you were not the only one who froze.

Lucilla did too. Her hand trembled. Her eyes widened. And for the first time in your life, you saw fear, real fear, flash through the woman who feared nothing.

How weird, you thought.

He kneeled to touch the san, to actually feel it with his bare hands. A thunderous groan rose from the opposite gate as a massive rhino burst into the arena, its hide caked in dust and painted markings, a gladiator standing tall atop its back like a grotesque statue come alive.

The beast lowered its horn, pounding the sand with earth-shaking force. The crowd roared as the rider leapt, swinging his spear toward Hanno.

What followed was chaos, a brutal spectacle. Hanno dodged the first strike, sand exploding beneath his feet, then rolled beneath the rhino’s charging bulk, slashing upward to wound its leg.

The opposing fighters swarmed him —three, then four— blades flashing. A fist slammed into Hanno’s jaw, another cut split his cheek open. Blood dripped down his neck. He staggered.

You gripped the railing, breath strangled in your throat as he was kicked to the ground, sand filling the wound along his ribs. But he refused to fall.

With a snarl, he seized the spear buried in the sand, twisted it free, and launched himself at the last standing gladiator. Steel met flesh. The man’s eyes widened as Hanno drove the blade through his torso, shoving him back until he collapsed in the dust, lifeless. The arena erupted.

And then Geta stood. “Finish him,” he declared with a lazy wave of his hand, as though ordering a second cup of wine.

Hanno moved faster than any man you had ever seen, ripping the fallen gladiator’s short sword from the sand and slashing the executioner across the throat in one clean, decisive stroke.

The crowd fell silent for a heartbeat and then exploded. “Hanno! Hanno! Hanno!” Even the senators —cold marble statues of men— rose to their feet in thunderous applause.

Hanno didn’t look at the acclaim. He simply walked, blood dripping down his torso, into the shadows beneath the arena. Leaving you cold, breathless… shaken to your bones.

A hand seized yours. Lucilla. Her grip was ice. “Follow me,” she said, her voice so sharp, so serious, that it carved straight through your confusion.

You barely had time to gather your skirts before she pulled you from the box, into a carriage, through the twisting streets of Rome until you arrived at her domus. She led you not to the familiar halls, but to a small, hidden room —a place you had never seen.

She froze in the doorway, staring at the white walls as if they bled. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

“Lucilla, why are you crying—” you began, stepping closer. But your words halted as your eyes lifted. Near the ceiling were paintings, childlike scenes, soft colors, a story unfolding: a river, reeds, a laughing boy with dark hair, a little girl holding a small flower.

Lucilla choked on a breath, then recited through trembling lips, “The gates of Hell are open night and day; smooth the descent, and easy the way.”

Your blood ran cold.

“That verse…”

The one Hanno had recited at Thraex’s party.

“Lucilla—what is all of this?”

She pressed a shaking hand to the wall. “It’s him. I can feel it. The way he touched the sand… just as his father did.”

“His father?”

“Maximus,” she whispered. “And I… I was his.” Her voice fractured, and she lowered herself to a stool. “You’ve heard the rumors. Yes. I had a lover. And a son.”

You stared at her, your heart pounding. “So they’re true?”

“You don’t remember…” she said softly, eyes searching your face. “You played by the river with the reeds. You were only children when everything fell apart. When I had to send him away.” Tears spilled again. “Oh, my poor Lucius…”

Lucius. The name struck you like a thunder.

Your knees weakened, the room spinning as the dream, your dream, began replaying behind your eyes. Only now…now the boy’s face came into focus.

Dark hair. Blue eyes. A soft flower in his hand, held out to you.

Hanno was Lucius, that little sweet boy Lucius, who that accompanied you throughout bits of your childhood.

And just like that, the dream wasn’t a dream anymore. It was a memory.