the light in rome was crueler than in alexandria, it didn’t shimmer, it struck. it clung to marble and iron, to the bronze of the eagles perched above the senate steps, to the polished armor of soldiers who did not look at her unless told to. even the air felt heavier here, as if the empire itself pressed down on her shoulders to remind her she was not free. clarissa stood where he had left her, in the peristyle garden of his palace, his, though she remembered when it had been her father’s word that commanded reverence. the fountain murmured behind her, a mockery of peace, its water catching the reflection of the setting sun and throwing it back in gold. she had forgotten what gold looked like in alexandria.

the palace is never truly asleep. even now, long after midnight has swallowed the last traces of evening, there are candles burning somewhere beyond her chamber walls and ancient creatures moving through endless corridors of marble and gold. clarissa has learned the rhythms of this place the way one learns the tide; reluctantly at first, and then all at once. rome belongs to geta. the nobles belong to geta. the centuries themselves seem to bend around him, reshaping themselves into something older and darker and impossibly devoted. and yet, standing alone beneath the silver spill of moonlight pooling across her balcony, she finds herself thinking not of emperors or kingdoms but of a pair of crimson eyes that have followed her through every season since he stole her from mortality. the night air is cool against her skin, stirring loose strands of pale hair across her shoulders as she curls her fingers around the stone railing. below her, the gardens glitter softly beneath the stars. above her, the moon hangs swollen and luminous, watching. always watching. ❝ i think, ❞ she murmurs quietly to no one and everyone, voice soft enough to disappear into the dark, ❝ that eternity feels much smaller than i imagined. ❞

the words sink into her chest like iron, heavy, immovable. @saintemperor : ❝ you were always meant to return to rome. ❞ was she? the fine line between destiny and duty has always blurred when it came to him. in her girlhood she dreamt of shores not yet conquered, temples bright as the sunlit nile, freedom threaded into every prayer whispered in the corridors of alexandria. she had plans, plans of a crown worn beside her brothers, of a city rising with her laughter stitched into its marble. she never thought the threads would be cut short, pulled taut until they led her back here. back to rome. back to him. geta speaks as though it were written in the stars, as though fate had carved her name into his empire long before she was born. yet fate is only the weapon of emperors, a word they wield to shackle treasures. so she answers with the composure of a woman exhausted from struggle yet unable to stop the fire in her chest. her lips curl, her eyes burn, though her voice remains silk, steady, controlled. ❝ perhaps rome always intended to claim me, ❞ she breathes, the faintest tremor betraying her resolve, ❝ but that does not mean i was meant to belong to you. ❞

it's far too late for them to be talking, the early hours of dawn filter through the boarded windows, whisps of the morning sun drifting into the palace bedroom, setting a warmth that settles between them both. clarissa settles against his chest, listening to the thud of his heartbeat  &   memorizing the moment.    it is rare to see him like this, even rarer to share a moment without raised voices.      how often has clarissa made excuses for the man she married ?   somehow they always end up back in this room, someohow they always make the same mistakes, somehow — she is always left more scarred than the last time she enters their bedchamber.   clarissa listens to the softnenss of his breath, remembering the words of her father all those years ago.     you can marry a jackal and pretend its a cat, but it will devour you just the same.     perhaps this time things will be different [it never is.]    maybe he's changed for the better   [we both know how this story ends — heartache and spilled blood are the mistress in their marriage.]    it’s late.   far too late to be indulging him.  no princess should be so close to the hand that bites,  no princess should let the enemy so close, no princess should feel the betrayal of her homeland taste so sweet on his lips. but as the moonlight pools into their room,   as she feels the ache leave her chest from days without him :   the empress clarissa realizes    that she is no great princess   :    she is a woman in need.    in agony until he's beside her,  until her head is in the crook of his neck,   until she’s almost at peace with his skin against hers. it's intoxicating. [ it burns. each mark against her skin is a scar, a trade for the blood spilled on his hands. how can she ignore the red on his hands when they're laced into her hair? ]       ❝ you're always kindest to me in the morning.  ❞   she knows he won't care, he won't deny it. the truth sits between them like a knife against the ribs. he only loves her like this. he only lets her speak freely in the quiet of the morning. [ he's too afraid for anything else. ]