Caveat Emptor (Closed for Apollo Wilde)

[Apollo Wilde]

Speaking with him, the simple, idle chatter of livestock, was soothing to her mind. Reminded her of the casual conversation she had with Lucius, after he’d asked her assessment of Tenebris. Then, she hadn’t had to hold her tongue - now? It was difficult, but not for the reasons why she thought it would be. She wanted to tell him everything she knew of Tenebris, for hopes that her words would help endear him that much more to the magnificent horse. To reassure him that her brother meant well, and was trustworthy, and was the type of man that Marcus should curry favor with, if not because of the uneven playing field of their stations, but because Lucius was just a good person. Lucius was a gift that she wanted to give to everyone; to share his sunlight with everyone.

He has a nice voice, when he speaks like this. Explaining.

For someone used to letting the words of men drift in one ear and out the other, she found herself paying attention, weighing the information that he gave her: what he said as much as what he didn’t say. Thoughtful, yes - so it seemed likely that he was similar to her brother, and someone who earned the praise associated with him, and didn’t just walk into it because of breeding.

I’m assuming his position, she thought, with a slight twist of her mouth. How much does he think that I know of him? And how much should I expose my own ignorance?

She still had a hard time with his name; let alone all else. Extraordinary circumstances, she had to remind herself. And an unusual courtship; they hadn’t met until a few hours ago, and her family, save Lucius, hadn’t been the most forthcoming with the details of Marcus, other than their endless insistence that he was a good match, with the unspoken, yet implicit threat, that how she truly felt wouldn’t be up for negotiation.

Well, I suppose there is that to look forward to this week.

Though the ground still felt shaky beneath her, she felt somewhat calmed enough to start to pull threads together, to weave together a tapestry of what her next move should be. But, as she was beginning would be typical with Marcus, he caught her by surprise yet again. One moment, they were speaking of Tenebris, of grooming, then, the next, he was speaking of bedding, and his voice dissolved into the loud rush of blood in her ears, the pounding of her heart, the dryness of her throat.

Unlike his earlier approach that had been greeted with confusion, then the threat of violence, this touch of his was met with dewy eyes and a slightly blank, befuddled expression, as if he’d suddenly started speaking a different language. As his thumb rubbed across her cheek, the whites of her eyes were similar to Tenebris’s, in her bewildering effort to register the touch with her eyes - comical, really. She was shocked into stillness, unable to respond, neither to lean into the touch - which she desperately wanted to - or to place her hand over his, to show that all was forgiven, that she wanted the chance to start over, once she got her head on straight. But how could she even attempt that, when he would catch her off guard like this?

And to make matters worse - the topping of the kiss on her forehead. The kiss that was decidedly, stomach-sinkingly, not what she wanted. As he turned to face his aid, Gaia stood in place, the ache of wanting so much more unable to translate from feeling into words. She took one step, then another - fighting back the urge to do more, to add speed to her steps. To run after him, to tackle him, force him to kiss her the way she wanted to be kissed. None of this familial “kiss on the forehead” nonsense. She wanted his mouth on hers, even if his hands remained chaste, because, well, she was his wife now, wasn’t she? Ugh, such a horrible word, “wife.” Still couldn’t get used to it.

Locked in helpless place, annoyed at herself, her buzzing feelings, she sighed - and headed back to the carpentum. She’d been so spaced when he’d spoken to her, caught up in the moment of tenderness, that she’d completely missed the opportunity to wash up. It was only as she was settling into the bedding that Mikkos had brought that it crossed her mind. And she realized that she didn’t have an answer for it.

Do I…even wash this off? She tugged at the folds of her robe over her chest, looking down. The ochre still clung to her skin, though the inside of the robe was completely stained red. She couldn’t remember seeing her sisters after their weddings. Not until weeks afterwards, and even then, it had been in passing. And her mother hadn’t been forthcoming on the matter at all.

For not the first time since the marriage actually happened, Gaia felt completely, and utterly unprepared. Lost. She stared down at the sandals on her feet, the dark patterns of henna arching around the tops of her feet.

The most basic things anyone could have told me - they neglected to. They had one role, and that was to prepare me for marriage. And now look at me; I’m so befuddled I don’t even know if I should bathe and remove this ochre or if it’s going to bring bad luck.

The annoyance twisted her mouth, and she settled deeper into the provided cushions, the picture of an angry feline. I suppose they were all too concerned about me getting married and out of the home than anything else. But all they’ve done is set me up for yet even more failure.

The urge to sulk was strong; she could feel it tugging at her feet, her stomach, making her sluggish, lazy.

No. I’m not going to sulk. I’ve been given a second chance and I am not going to waste it.

She glanced around the carpentum; made sure that the door was closed. And it wasn’t too much longer before she could feel the wheels beneath begin to move, smoother than she would have thought. The fear of leaving home sparked within her again, and she bolted from her cushions to look out the small window. Her father’s villa was already growing smaller in the distance, and her, the awkward bride, being trundled off like a calf to market.

Well, she thought, the gnawing of sadness still humming in her bones, It’s not that I won’t ever see them again. And think of it this way, Gaia - they told you your entire life that you had but one role, and when it came, they didn’t even prepare you properly for it. And now you’re off to some parts unknown, with an unknown man that turns your insides to fire and water, and now what? What will you do, Gaia?

The thing I’ve always done when uncertain. I’ll pray.

In the steady rocking of the carpentum, she pulled the worn marriage leopard pelt pulla over her head, and offered her palms up in supplication, the dark whorls of flowers and vegetation stark against the tan pink of her palms.

To you, Mercury, god of travelers, please watch over this gathering, and bring us all safely to home, wherever that may be.

To you, Diana, goddess of the hunt, and who has blessed me since before I was a thought in the womb, please give me courage and reason as I go into unknown wilds.

A pause.

A deep breath, a creasing of her brow.

And to you, Venus, goddess of love, and to whom I have never spoken to - you, who have never touched me, quickened my mind with the press of passion, to you, who have worked with your pure sister to keep my chastity in tact, though it may have been but a laughing matter to you: I beseech you: help me. I have no knowledge of what I’m supposed to do, who I am supposed to be, and what my husband would ask of me. Guide me gently; do not laugh at the entreaties of a virgin. For your favor, I will be sure to dedicate a garden to you, to use all my skill in my blood to bring you a place of beauty.













He had beautiful handwriting - even those would could not read would be struck by the sheer craftsmanship of it. It seemed less like words and more like figures that brought his voice to life, even if the roll of vellum was no larger than a man’s palm.

Greetings, brother!

I will apologize for the haste of this letter; as you can imagine, the family has been a whirlwind of action since the engagement. Less than a fortnight, and here we are, bound in marriage.

I write, not as a political man, and not as a threatening in-law, but as a doting brother. Perhaps too doting, but it is one of the actions in my life that I will never have cause to regret. Gaia is my youngest sister, and the one who loves me most of all in this world, and I her. I know that I will speak of my wish for you to look after her at the wedding; one tends to repeat the things that are important. But I will ask of you here to please bring your patience with her. I will not say that she is coddled and spoiled; on the contrary, she has been commanded and molded into something that but resembles a fine Roman woman. And if you are content to have little more than a pretty vase to display to others, she could fulfill that. But I feel in my bones that you would want more, and so you should have it, if you keep your patience. My sister is unlike other women - she has been devoted to the Goddess of the Hunt since she could walk, and perhaps if our family had been of a different standard, she would have vanished with ease into the temples of Vesta. But alas, she is here, with you, and brings her perhaps strange ways with her. I hope that in time you can see the face that she shows me: but maybe I have been a bad influence on her. After all, what elder brother teaches his sister how to box?


It was as if the vellum contained a sigh, slipped in-between the neat lines before the next, and last, paragraph begun.

I could spend nights writing of the virtues of my sister, of all the things I love about her and what makes her my most beloved. But my time is growing short, and I do not want to bore you with information that may be ignored. If my sister is difficult, it is because she does not know how to navigate the manners of the heart; she has never had affection for anyone outside of the family, but instead has been focused on a world she has created for herself. It is a rich one, I will admit, but lonely without someone to share it with. My deepest hope is that you will be that person whom she can open her heart to.

Should you have any need of my guidance, or any concerns, please send a letter to me directly, as I know her the best.

To close on a happier note, and perhaps not to sound as grave as I feel that I have come off, I hope that Tenebris is a welcome gift, and that the road from my father’s home to your villa is a safe one.

In friendship, and now, family -

Lucius Africanus Musa

 

[Talon]

Marcus nodded affirmatively as he rolled up the small section of vellum with care, as if to preserve it, before tucking it back into his belt.

He must care deeply for her, to extend himself out on a limb like this…

Other men might perhaps not appreciate their family-in-law attempting to meddle in their relationship, no matter how sincerely, while others still might suspect some political machinations afoot. In this case, Marcus took the words as written; he had met Lucius face-to-face, shook his hand, assessed the quality of the man. Perhaps he was being a bit naive, in the moment, to expect that anyone would do something ‘out of the goodness of their heart’. Although he had no blood siblings himself, Marcus had seen the squabbling and backbiting amongst high born families play out throughout his political career. It was almost a rule of thumb that one should expect deception and deceit from those closest to them, as they are more keenly aware of personal weaknesses. Marcus felt nothing of the sort from Lucius’ letter, however, for as much as someone could judge the genuineness of the written word, they seemed to have been penned in good faith.

For such a short missive it was a lot to take in, much to weigh and consider. He couldn’t help but think it might have been helpful to read before they had met, he could have perhaps avoided their earlier conflict if so, but he did not fault Lucius for his timing. A letter like that, describing his sister as being perhaps atypical to what most men in Marcus’ position would be looking for in a wife, would be dangerous to send beforehand. Lucius had no foresight into what sort of man Marcus would turn out to be. Clearly he had thought Marcus decent enough to take heed of his inside knowledge of Gaia’s character.

I will take good advice freely given...although now I suppose I owe him twice over, for both the horse and the guidance. If I’m not careful, I’ll be up to my ears in debt to the man before the day is over…

Marcus smiled, shifting in his saddle, once more taking up the reigns, clicking his tongue as he pressed his heels into Tenebris’ sides. “Come then, Tenebris...let us see how well you run…”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


The carpentum lurched to a stop, the muffled sound of nearby servants setting about their tasks could be heard through the cabin's wooden walls. They had been on the road for some time, likely at least halfway through their journey by now, and judging by the telltale sounds of activity outside, they had stopped to refresh and feed the horses.

A gentle rhythmic rap of knuckles on the carpentum door before it slowly opened, a ray of light from the midday sun illuminating the entrance for a moment, the open portal bringing with it access to the early spring air, humid, carrying upon it notes of pollen and grass with a faint hint of sea salt as their journey brought them closer to the coast, the sounds of energetically chirping songbirds joining with the commotion of busy servants. A young woman filled the doorway as she climbed aboard, stocky of frame and plain featured, the light-skinned woman wore the clothing typical of the other servants of Marcus’ household that Gaia had seen. Her eyes were downcast as she bowed her head towards the occupant of the wagon.

Her voice was soft and meek, she appeared young, likely inexperienced in serving as more than a household servant. She spoke in broken latin, with a heavy Greek accent. “Domina...Mikkos command me see that you are with comfort. We take break a few moments. I can show to you latrine, or you want I bring for you food or water?”




Marcus held an apple out for Tenebris with one hand as he worked a brush across the animal’s back with the other, a genuine smile warming his face as he worked. On the other side of the horse, Mikkos was lifting the saddle up for another servant who sat in the wagon to take and store for the remainder of the trip. They were standing beside the last wagon in the caravan of three, with the carpentum carrying Gaia in the lead.

“A fine animal, Dominus…”

Marcus nodded as Tenebris eagerly took a bite of the fruit in his hand, Marcus rotating it around to offer the uneaten side, Tenebris lifting his head and shaking his mane loose with a forceful snort in a display of apparent content. “Indeed he is...I believe that should do it, he should be content to run with the herd for the rest of the trip...although, I suspect my wife will want to say hello before we head out. Don’t tie him with the rest until we are set to head out, let her greet him if she desires. As for me, I fear I will burst if I don’t heed nature’s call.”

“Very well, Dominus, it will be as you say…”

Marcus nodded, giving Tenebris one last stroke with the brush before tossing it up to the servant inside the wagon. He turned, adjusting the scabbard at his side, his legs still growing accustomed to once more meeting the ground as he moved, weaving between the wagons to head for the stone building beside the way station that held the public latrines.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Marcus returned to the carpentum as the caravan made preparations to resume travel. Once inside he removed his sword, wrapped the leather strap of the baldric around the scabbard and tucked it back behind the seat. He offered a half-smile to Gaia as he took the seat across from her, reaching down to untie the straps of his sandal. Although his features maintained their stoic quality, it was clear that he had begun to feel the fatigue of many hours without rest, his shoulders slumped, his movements somewhat slowed. After removing his sandals he settled back against the seat, retrieving a waterskin from the side and taking a deep pull, swishing the liquid around in his mouth before swallowing. Sitting up, he moved across the cabin to the opposite bench where the bedding had been set up, sitting beside her, offering her the open container.

“Drink?...It’s just water.”

Marcus sighed as he felt the carpentum lurch forward. Six more hours of travel to go. He’d made this trip countless times, and yet, this time it felt like it was taking an eternity. He knew very well why, though, and didn’t bother analyzing the feeling any further.

Marcus replaced the cap on the waterskin, tucking it against the wall beside him. His pulse was a dull thud at his temple, his throat dry despite being so recently wetted, his breath labored, skin warm to the touch. The air in the cabin felt thick, almost oppressively so, and not because of the rise in outside humidity. Silence for a moment...birds chirping...the drone of the wheels beneath them against the stones of the paved road.

Do it...you heard what she said...she wants it as badly as you do, give her what she needs...take what you need...do it, you coward!

The nails at the tip of Marcus’ fingers bit into the flesh of his palms as his hands tightened into fists. He relaxed them as the urges passed, or at least lessened enough to allow him to function, and Marcus rolled his shoulders to loosen them as his head tilted back against the rear wall of the cabin. He spoke then, his voice hoarse as if he needed to clear his throat. “I’m going to shut my eyes for a few moments...you should try to rest, as well. Another six hours until we reach the villa…”

A hand reached over towards her, coming to rest against the inside of her thigh, just above her knee. His eyes were shut, head swaying from time to time with the motion of the carriage, seemingly already asleep before the last word left his lips.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Not the slow stop of the wheels, the muted conversation, the end of the sound of horse hoofbeats, or the soft knocking at the door were enough to wake her. When the door was quietly slid open, the stout Greek woman would be in for a sight. If she had expected the new Domina to be napping daintily, or perhaps peering out of the window, chin in palm, in contemplative thought, she would receive neither. What would greet her was Gaia, sprawled out across the bedding, legs splayed across the interior as best she could - the rumpling of the bedding suggested that she’d done a fair bit of tossing and turning and fussing before she came to her current position. She was on her back, an arm thrown over her eyes, mouth open, her robe barely held onto her body by the Herculean knot at her waist. As it was, the robe was bunched up around the knot, exposing the full length of her legs and the subligaculum beneath. The leather garment had perhaps been of a paler tan leather; it would be hard to tell, as it was stained deep red from the ochre on her body. But even the staining couldn’t entirely hide the finer embroidery around the top, the strings that were skillfully woven out of scraps of silk, giving the otherwise plain garment a bit of a festive look. At the top, the robe had parted to show a matching strophium that seemed to sag under the weight of her breasts.

The woman’s voice caused Gaia to dart up with a muffled exclamation, a guttural sound that could have been a word. Instantly upon waking, she sat, stock still, trying to blink reason into the world, to calm the rapid pulse of her heartbeat.

Where am I?

A mild panic slipped in, until she started to wipe the sleep from her eyes, the worst of the smeared kohl from her eyes. The clinking of her bracelets, the recognition of the white robe.

Ah. Being trundled off. Right.

Widening her eyes, she blinked back tears from yawning, and started tugging her robe back into place. Some sort of semblance of being a conscious human being. She’d fallen asleep with her sandals still on; imagine that.

“Thank you…” She trailed off, looking up at the woman. Oh; that was right. She wasn’t at home, and the servants were unfamiliar ones. Yet another thing that lay ahead of her. She smiled a little. “What is your name?”

The woman, barely more than a girl, did not lift her head. “Philomena, Domina.”

“Thank you, Philomena.” At least this title was familiar; far more than “wife”, either way. “I think a trip to the latrine would be in order.”







After the latrine, Philomena had brought her a light repast of honey and bread, water. Some of the latter was used to wash her face, tradition and bad luck be damned. What more bad luck could he already have, being married to a woman who threatened to punch him on his wedding night, Gaia had thought ruefully as she gently sponged a dampened rag around her throat. Besides, sweat and tears had made their work on her face as it was. Only the henna on her feet and hands was unmarred by travel. The ochre, of course, still clung to her - she supposed as it had dyed the cloth, it was rubbed right back onto her body.

As she dipped the last bit of bread into the honey, she was thankful that she was able to eat that much. Her appetite had been poor the day of the wedding, and during the festivities itself, it had been hard to slip more than a mouthful here or there, out of excitement for dancing, the reoccurring fear of the significance of the events, the quiet glares of her mother and Cassia, warning her not to eat near her normal amount for shame to the guests at how much of a glutton she could apparently be.

The way to the latrines and back had been a much needed opportunity to stretch her legs; moving had felt like she had limbs replaced with wood, every step sending fresh waves of annoyance into the muscles of her legs and lower back, not to mention how tenderly she walked on the ground. It felt as if she had on no sandals at all; each pebble and mound enough to trip her. Thankful to be sitting down again, she had the nagging thought that perhaps she should have walked around more, should have checked on Tenebris. But she’d gotten back to the carpentum as fast as she could, more concerned with getting off of her feet than exploring more.

And now, it would seem that the opportunity to move more was dashed. Marcus’s form darkened the door. Ah well - there would be another chance, wouldn’t there? She’d watch in quiet as he entered, glad that she was a bit more pulled together than she was when she first woke up, and realized, as he removed his sandals, that hers were still on. With a haste that lent itself to clumsiness, she quickly reached down to do the same - ended up making a knot in the thin leather straps across her ankles, and with a scowl, set about undoing the mess with both hands, leaning down over her legs. While he got comfortable beside her, it felt that the knots decided that two were simply not enough, and they produced the more she worked at them. But soon enough, she’d loosened the straps enough so that her feet, narrow as they were, could be slipped free, and once that was done, she kicked them off, a little harder than she should have. One thudded not too much further in front of her, the other, lost to the realm of the bedding.

And of course he saw all of that. I’m continually making a mess of things.

What was left of her pride, she gathered together, and shook her head at the offer of water. “No, but thank you. I had a bit of refreshment when we stopped. The honey was delicious,” the memory of it causing a true smile to float to her face, cutting through the murk of her embarrassment at being completely incapable of removing her sandals like an adult.

He looks tired. Should I touch his shoulders? Give him a hug? Should I do either?

I want to touch him.

Yes, well, clearly, it’s not about what you want. What would he want?

I don’t know.

Venus, help!

“Rest is good…” Halting, the words came - stuttering as he put his hand on her leg. Then, as she looked up to his face, his eyes closed, she smiled again, the small slip of joy of watching a man actually relax.

Well, that’s progress. He doesn’t think I’m going to attack him while he sleeps.

A devious thought.

But what if you did, though?

He’d probably run you through.

Oh, don’t be such an ass. You know what you mean by ‘attack.’ Look at him. Sleeping like that can’t be comfortable.

“Husband?”

I don’t like saying that. But what else should I call him? His name? He’s called you ‘Gaia’, once.

The memory was enough to send heat into her cheeks.

I’d like for him to call me that more. My name.

Well. I’ve asked for your help, Venus, but you are like the rest of the goddesses: you won’t help those who will not help themselves. So I ask for your protection: please do not have this man run me through for what I’m about to do.

She’d called him, and now was the time to simply do - actions she’d done with Lucius, her father, when they’d fallen asleep in their chairs. Magnus, too, before he got too fat for her to move him easily. Grounding herself, she inched closer to Marcus, and put her hands on his shoulders. In the past, that had been enough to still Lucius and her father, but Marcus seemed to be lost that much more in sleep. Not that she could blame him; she had slept deeply herself, and already the lull of the carpentum was making her eyelids heavy.

“Come with me, now…and please don’t fight,” the last was whispered under her breath as she angled him a bit more, less sitting up, and more starting to lean - leaning was good. Leaning was the next step to laying down. And a small bump in the road, literally, was enough to get him where she wanted him. He jostled against her, before his head came to rest against the swells of her chest, her right arm wrapping around him. And then she was down, easing him with her, keeping his head pressed against her breast.

 

[Talon]

Marcus stirred as the carpentum lurched to a stop, drawing in a deep breath as he was jostled awake by the sudden motion. His eyelids were heavy, resisting efforts to open them beyond more than just a sliver. Where was he...what was he resting against? So soft and warm...had Gaia managed to drag him from the bench onto the bedding on the floor? Had he known it would be this comfortable, he’d have laid his head down here from the start of the trip. Marcus shifted, wrapping an arm around what he thought must be a pillow beside him, pulling it towards him, hugging it against his chest, his cheek pressed into the softness of the cushion it rested upon as he sighed contentedly.

Gods, I feel as if I am wrapped up in the embrace of Juno herself...warm...like the rays of the midday sun...so warm, almost as if...

Marcus’ eyes opened slowly, his vision dominated by a field of white, his cushion slowly rising and falling beneath him, rhythmically, as if…

Oh…

Marcus lifted his head slightly, gently, so as not to disturb his living cushion, pulling back just a bit, his vision sharpening, shapes and details coming into focus, bountiful swells that filled his immediate field of vision given their proximity...

No, not a pillow at all...breasts...a very large pair of breasts at that...

His head lifted slowly, gently, gaze flickering up. Her head was turned slightly towards her right shoulder, and from his vantage below he could see the curvature of her chin, the fullness of her lips, slightly agape, her left eye as it was closed in slumber. Marcus’ own eyes slid back down to her chest as he laid his head down again gently, carefully, so as not to rouse her, his cheek once more pressing into the fabric of her stola, into the softness of the orb constrained beneath.

Gods...I had failed to properly take note before, what, with the ceremonial garb covering her front and all...but damn...what a pair of tits...

Marcus felt a surge of heat in his loins, his breath deepening, nearly panting as each exhale grew progressively more forceful, pulse elevating. He looked down, confirming that it was in fact her hip that his arm had draped over and clung to as he slept, and he could feel her opposite side pressed against the bottom of his ribcage as he curled up against her. His crotch pressed into her thigh as he pushed forward with his hips, a gentle thrust at first, grinding the loincloth encased lump between his legs against the fleshy part of her thigh as if he were trying to scratch an itch there. His eyes were drawn back up to her chest, then, settling there to watch the slow, rhythmic rise and fall, admiring their shape as he passively observed their movement, his head carried along like a boat on the ocean, his hips continuing their sensual grinding motion against her thigh.

I wonder what they will look like when they are not constrained within clothing? They look large enough now, I’ll bet they are truly massive when she lets them hang free. I wonder what it would feel like to press my face into the valley between them…

No longer content to merely scrub his cheek against them, Marcus’ face began to turn, his nose, lips and chin now getting into the action, rubbing against her like an animal rubs itself against the trunk of a tree to scratch a hard to reach itch. His face lifted a bit, the rubbing motion morphing to concentrate on his lips, lips that puckered, that placed light kisses onto the fabric of her dress, his range of motion extending as he seemed to be tracing the lower outline of the swell of her breast.

Affectionate kisses were joined by the flexing of fingers, fingers that belonged to the hand that had previously found its way around her hip, fingers that currently busied themselves with coping a feel of her rump, splayed out as if to cover as much area as they could, softly kneading into the abundance of flesh with rhythmic pulses. His other hand shifted to slide between them, palm against his chest, the back of his hand running down her thigh until it reached the hem of his tunic, his hips lifting enough to allow him to pull the garment up, exposing his lower half as he roughly tucked the bottom of the garment into his belt.

His whole body shifted up now, kisses still trailing along the cloth of her stola, lips finally meeting her flesh as his head lifted enough to allow access to the area above the neckline of her garment, her skin a deep brown that still showed a hint of the red from the paste she had managed to mostly wipe off. It wouldn’t have mattered to him in that moment if she hadn’t, it wouldn’t have stopped him from trailing kisses up her chest, across the inside of her collarbone to where shoulder met neck, up to her jawline, across to the edge of her jaw, just below her ear.

He could feel the weight of her arm that had been laid across his shoulders, her palm sliding down his back as he rose, coming to a rest in the small of his back, his body shifting towards her right side, bringing his pelvis into alignment with hers, hips between her thighs. Marcus reached down with both hands now, his hips raising up, his hands blindly feeling for the hem of her dress, his lips laying kisses upon her neck. Seizing handfuls of the material of her stola he pulled it up, urgently, desperately, apparently no longer concerned with waking her, lifting the garment tug by tug until the space between them was exposed, the front of her stola bunch up around her middle. His hands moved away then, their task complete, his left moving behind her upper body to grasp the back of her neck as his right slid around her hip to seize a handful of her backside.

His hips pressed in then, grinding the bulge of flesh still held within his loincloth against the leather of her subligaculum as he thrust his hips downward, grinding into her as he had with her thigh. His thrusts gained intensity, jostling her beneath him, her breasts pressed between them by the solid wall of his chest, his lips nibbling at her earlobe.

Unless she sleeps the sleep of the dead, she must be awake by now.

“Gaia...I need you, Gaia...now…” A throaty, hoarse whisper at her ear, the words practically dripping with desire, completely devoid of the chill that normally resided in his voice.

The hand at her rump relented its grip for a moment, reaching between them as his hips lifted and held, fingers making quick work of the knot at his left hip that secured his loincloth, gripping it and pulling it away. He tossed it away, over towards the opposite bench, before his hips once more fell to the space between her thighs. She could feel something press against the strip of leather that covered the cleft of her sex, something firm, prodding against it as if seeking entrance, occasionally poking into or brushing against the soft flesh of her inner thighs, it’s touch warmer than his lips, bordering on hot, almost as if hot enough to scald her if held against her bare flesh for too long.

Marcus’ head moved, his lips pressed to hers in a kiss, an urgent kiss, a kiss that inspired his hips to buck forth, their pelvises grinding together, his thighs brushing against the back of hers.

“I’ve never felt such raw lust this deeply before...not for anything...women, money, power...I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to be inside you...right here, right now. To be joined intimately not as simply husband and wife, but as lovers…”

Marcus' hand was at her hip, fingers curling under the top of the subligaculum she wore, the tension in the air palpable as he made as if he were prepared to yank the garment off of her forcefully.

“Tell me you feel the same...tell me that you feel this hunger too, and we will satisfy it together, here and now.” His lips moved back, kissing along her jawline, nibbling at her earlobe as he awaited her answer, seeming as if he hoped to inspire her to say yes if in fact she wasn't inclined to agree already.

THUNK

Something had struck the outside of the carpentum...it sounded like...

Marcus bolted up, a sharp intake of breath, ears straining, eyes wide, gaze cast down to the side as he listened, suddenly aware that the carpentum had been at a stop for some time now…

Clang...clang..the unmistakable clamour of steel on steel.

A voice shouted from outside the cabin. “Ambush...we’re under attack!”

Marcus pushed off from his position atop Gaia with force, sitting up for a moment and wiping a hand across his face as if attempting to sober himself up. Bolting up off the bench, his foot met the bedding on the floor of the carpentum at an awkward angle, and in combination with the force behind his movement, it caused the bedding to slip and bunch beneath his heel, sending Marcus sprawling into the wall beside him, a sharp exclamation of pain issuing from his lips as the corner of his elbow met solid wood. The adrenaline surging through his veins lessened the impact of such an injury in the moment, as Marcus shot across the cabin, pulling his tunic free from where it had been tucked into his belt before reaching behind the seat to secure his weapon. Taking a seat on the bench, then, Marcus hurriedly fastened his sandals to his feet, the lacing sloppy but tied well enough to keep them securely in place. He looked over at Gaia as his fingers worked.

“Whatever happens...I’d prefer if you stayed here, where you will be safe. If you must go outside, don’t stray too far from me, stay within eyeshot. Agreed?” Marcus stood, his sandals tied, sword gripped in his hand.

“And, Gaia...know that…” He paused, as if conflicted about what he should say. “If anything should happen to me...know that I care for you, deeply.”

And with that Marcus turned, opening the door to the carpentum and hopping down out of it, the sharp sounds of tense combat rushing through the open portal, no longer dulled by the wooden walls surrounding them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marcus exited the comfort of the carpentum and entered into a battlefield. The caravan was currently stopped along the side of a road that ran along a fairly steep ridge, inclining to the right of the caravan and declining to the left, the side which Marcus had exited on. The area was sparsely wooded, enough to provide some measure of shade but not enough to conceal movement through tree cover. A quick scan of the tree line showed no signs of the enemy, and satisfied that he had thus far escaped notice, Marcus looped the leather strap of his scabbard’s baldric over his head, resting the blade at his left hip, as he looked around to assess the situation. They were stopped in the middle of a bend in the road, one that curved back towards the high ground gradually enough that it would have been impossible to see what lay ahead from a distance. To the front, perhaps a hundred meters in front of the carpentum, there was what looked to be a broken down wagon stretched across the road, leaving enough space for a man on foot or horseback to pass, but only if in single file. It was a chokepoint, then, and likely recognized as such by the guards, which is why the caravan was halted so far back.

Speaking of the guards, he could see that four of them were engaged with the enemy there, near the wagon. They were outnumbered by at least two to one, but for the moment were holding their ground, armed with gladius and scutum, formed in a makeshift line with their enemies in a rough half circle before them.

“Get back, you dogs!”

Marcus’ head turned sharply, hearing Mikkos’ voice ring out.

Mikkos was outside the wagon that was in line behind the carpentum, roughly twenty meters away, a wooden mallet in one hand and what looked to be a knife for butchering animals in the other, squared off against two assailants who were armed with sword and buckler. Whether by design or mere coincidence, Mikkos had managed to arrange himself so that his attackers were between him and Marcus, with their backs facing him, apparently unaware that he had entered the field of battle. They likely hadn’t expected the occupants of such a fine vehicle to be armed, let alone able to put up much of a fight. It would prove a costly err in judgement, for them.

Marcus pulled the spatha from its scabbard, letting the sword fall to his right side as he strode forth, calmly, cautiously, so as not to draw their attention.

“Come now old man...it doesn’t have to be like this. Show us where the money is, and we’ll end it, quick…”

Marcus shifted as he drew near, his left foot forward, left arm raising as he lifted his sword to rest the flat of the blade against the bracer at his left wrist, the edge horizontal, both arms lifting up to shoulder level, poised to strike. His eye measured the distance between the man on the left’s shoulder and waist, taking aim at where he estimated the space between the second and third rib would be.

It wasn’t a perfectly aimed thrust, Marcus had felt the tip of the sword skip off bone, but it was well placed nonetheless, a foot of steel blooming from the left side of the man’s chest, a cry of pain choked off almost as soon as it left the assailant’s lips. Marcus retracted his sword from the man’s back, blade still steadied against his bracer, sliding against it with a metallic hiss as it withdrew. Once the tip cleared flesh Marcus’ sword hand pivoted up, raising the handle above his head, his left arm falling to his side as his right leg lunged forward, the blade swinging around behind his shoulders as it was brought to bear, culminating in a crisp, arcing, right to left downward cut. The man to the right had started to turn, to bring his shield around, but he was a second too late. The blade of Marcus’ sword bit into the base of his neck where it met with shoulder, the sharpness of the superior steel easily cutting bone and severing tendon. Marcus pulled the blade back, a half twirl to once more position it before him with the flat of the blade horizontal to the ground, right foot stepping back as his left hand gripped the blade at the center, both arms pulling the sword back for additional leverage before he thrust it into the assailants exposed side. Marcus surged forward then to bump the man's shield with his shoulder, the sudden force knocking the man off balance and sending him collapsing to the dirt at his feet as he spasmed in the throes of death.

Mikkos looked up at Marcus, mouth agape, stricken by the sudden burst of violence despite feeling gratitude for having been spared of it.

Marcus sighed, lifting his blade to rest it on his right shoulder, ignoring the look from Mikkos, his gaze cast behind the man, towards the rear of the caravan, hidden from his view at present vantage by a bend in the road. “See to your people here...and take one of their swords...” He nudged the corpse of the man he had stabbed through the heart with a sandaled foot. “...they no longer have need of them. I’ll check on the guards at the rear.” Marcus set off, a few strides taken in that direction before he turned back. “Watch for Gaia...if there is trouble, give signal, I will come swiftly.”

Mikkos nodded, unable to meet Marcus’ gaze, his face still registering a look of shock. “Yes, Dominus…”

Marcus turned back, sword leaning against shoulder, striding off towards the rear wagon as promised, seemingly unfazed by the violence he had just committed.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

It was so ungodly hot. Despite her ancestry, and her admitted affinity for the summer as opposed to the winter, even she had her limits. And so she had been awake for the last half hour, sweating, an arm still around Marcus, her eyes closed in the hopes that in keeping them closed, she might fool her body back to sleep. Surely she deserved it; her legs and feet still ached from the dancing before, as they always did after one of her family’s celebration. A brave face was always put on for the guests, but the day after? Everyone was allowed to sleep late, meals and snacks were taken in bed, and not a single person was scolded for being a layabout - from the slaves, servants, and on to Virgil himself, everyone knew the day after would a holiday to itself.

As Marcus pulled her closer in his sleep, she had to stifle a groan. The man put off heat like a cooking fire, and here he was, in the midst of all of the bedding and the suffocating folds of her robe, wanting to get closer? Looking down at his face, any annoyance she felt at being further constricted melted away. Sleep lessened the severity of his face, making it all the easier for her to really take a look at him. Her initial thought, one partially born out of longing, had proven to be the correct one: he was handsome. The silver in his hair seemed to add to it rather than take it away, and certainly his hair was no less thick and lush for his age. Her hand shifting from his back, she gently combed it back from his temples, where sweat had dampened it. Ran her fingers down from there to the nape of his neck, cradling him, before letting it slip back down to his back.

This marriage? Her feelings? Strange. How could one go from near contempt to smitten to burning? All within the hands of Venus could someone dance. The unknown scared Gaia; she was still human. She had ears; she heard of how men typically treated wives, knew that the relationship between her mother and father was rare, a best case scenario, when marriages were arranged for political gain. And there had been no question in her mind that her fate would be the same as her sisters; it had just come as a surprise that her marriage would have favored Lucius. That had been enough to get her to lower her head, to accept more than she normally would have. But when she’d had air enough to breathe, that’s when the fear came, the realization that she was marrying a stranger, without the benefits of at least the gestures of a courtship. And the way he’d handled her! He’d simply taken in her unshapely body in his hands, like he had been owed it, like it was a prayer granted, and her mind had shorted out. Never in her life had she been the subject of such…desire? Would that be the right word?

Not that there was a shortage of men coming and going from her father’s home, or men that worked the land - but she paid no notice to them, lost in her own world. And, now that she thought back on it, with her being the youngest daughter, she perhaps had been guarded jealously, far more than her older sisters. Even if a shepherd has but one sheep in his flock, he still brings his dog. Dog. Oh, Argos - she hadn’t even said goodbye to him. Hopefully he was doing well, laying fat and content, napping in the sun, than stalking the house looking for her mournfully.

Marcus shifted against her, and her mind was brought back to the present. He seemed to be readjusting, better resting his cheek against her breasts. Not that she minded; it felt natural - comforting, that he would settle into her so easily. Though she wished she was without the strophium - it kept her breasts settled in one place, and right now, it had shifted to cut more into the flesh of her breasts than across them. One good tug would pull it down off of her breasts entirely, but doing that right now was out of the question. So she’d keep her eyes closed, trying to focus on the weight of his head against her rather than the cloth that seemed well on its way on strangling the life out of her breasts. Why had the damned thing been woven so tightly? There was no containing them, Natta had often joked, taking out older strophiums to prolong their use. As if Gaia needed another sign at how rushed their nuptials were -

Oh?

His hips ground into her thigh, and she stilled, waiting. Once would have been easy enough to brush off, maybe twice. But no; this was a continued, slow thrust, reminding her of dancing, but much heavier. Much more focused.

Who could he be imagining? The thought was one of humor; maybe sleep would prove to show Marcus’s true face, the one beneath the chill. Humor came easier, born on the slight heat that was starting to build in her stomach. Against her thigh, his thrusting was…interesting, but…wrong. Not “wrong” in that it felt bad, but that it was in the wrong place. “Wrong” in that there was too much fabric between them, running the risk of rubbing flesh raw.

His face was turning on her chest now, and it became too clear to her that he was no longer as asleep as he had been. For her part, she willed her eyes open, curious, to see what he would do next, some annoyance there, yes, but again, not at him, but at the entrapment that their clothing seemed to be. Her gut churned; there was no room for thought, just a quick whispered request to Venus for guidance. To have enough trust in her body to not question, but to feel. There was nothing to get in the way now; this was true and proper, he was her husband, there would be no looking down of noses now. And Diana herself had saw fit to deliver her into marriage, so surely that meant that even the Chaste Huntress saw fit for Gaia to go on this path?

“Wait.” Soft, breathy, between the two of them. Not a request to stop, but to lift up, just a bit - she shrugged off the top part of her robe, revealing shoulders damp and shining with sweat, brown skin filtering through red ochre, and then, a low contented sigh as she finally tugged the strophium down from her breasts. They were large, larger than a handful, and sat high on her chest, despite their obvious weight. There was no space between them, so full were they, and her areolas and nipples were of a deeper brown than the rest of her. Her nipples were already erect, dainty little buds, and as she shifted to be beside him, against him, his lips touched her bare flesh, finally, finally, and she gasped, her head tilting back, exposing more of the long column of her throat. Her heart pounded; the sweat on her skin a distant memory as his lips traveled further up her neck, to her jaw, and the rest of her was screaming no, not my jaw, my breasts, please, kiss them instead -

“Marcus,” his name was a soft, little plea, forced out of her as he roughly yanked up her stolla, bit by bit, and the throbbing between her legs was growing, nearly unbearable, preparing, yes, for this, what her mind wasn’t truly ready for, but what her body was begging for, another soft cry as he grabbed her rear, his hand large and powerful, reminding her of his strength, the mere thought of it enough to render her body into a pliant reed. Readily she moved beneath him, her thighs falling open to accept him between them, and when he rutted against the leather of her subligaculum, her arms tightened about his chest, pulling him further into her -

Yes, that’s it, this is where he belongs, it feels good, so good, goddess Venus, please forgive me my ignorance, have this man show me all of your favors -

She moaned into his mouth as he kissed her, not knowing when she’d parted her lips, or why, just that it happened, and her tongue was in his mouth, clumsy, she knew, somewhere, or maybe not; the fever in her kiss, the longing, was more than enough to make up for the newness of it, the eagerness of her tongue meeting his, the near bruising pressure in which she responded, wanting to drink more of him, more and more until she needed air more than his mouth, and she parted, to suck in great gasps, before his question, his lips moving away from her mouth and a small whine in complaint from her.

“Take me.” There was little else to be said to his demand, no endless questions for her mind to turn over and over. It felt right, he said he needed her, she believed him, she could feel him, firm, yes, so much for it being cut clean off - and like she could feel him, he could feel her, burning through the thin leather across her sex, the plumpness of her lips, the wet curls of her pubic hair, the way her hips arched into the hand that gripped the top of her burdensome subligaculum -

What? Why was he stopping?

“Wha..?” It came from her, confused, stumbling, even as she was struggling to sit up, to tuck her breasts back into the strophium, pull her robe across her shoulders. Her legs were still parted, her inner thighs soaked with both sweat and her arousal, the lips of her sex so swollen that she felt like she couldn’t close her legs properly. With her robe still about her waist, she would have been completely exposed to him, were it not for the subligaculum, which, in their love play, had been set slightly askew, exposing black curls and the puffed lip of her labia.

Ambush?

But why?

She blinked, the words cold water on her ardor. She was on her feet, nearly as quick as him, tugging things into place as she moved.

Can’t move with this so long, need to tuck it up, belt is too high, can’t be moved, can’t be helped, I need to move -

Fight or flight, it would be difficult to tell. Even she wasn’t entirely sure, moving to do something, anything, rather than sit and wait. But his words made sense, grounded her.

I’m clearly a bride, came her first thought as she thought of her white gown, an easy target, either for hostage or for - She wouldn’t allow herself to finish that thought. He’s right; I would be in the way otherwise. I’ve no eye or ear for war or to be helpful.

The thought twisted her guts, but she knew that it was correct. She was no warrior, and was not eager to prove herself as one, either.

Wait.

He cares for me?

The word was enough to cause her stomach to flutter, to pull tight. He was gone before she could answer.

Venus, please, don’t take him away from me before I fully learn anything about him.

A tightening of her mouth. Diana, give me courage.

She lingered by the door longer, listening to the sounds of battle. He’d told her to wait. And so she should, but…

No one could fault me in arming myself. The thought was so quick, whispered from so deep inside of her that it felt that it had literally been told to her in her ear. A quick glance around; there seemed to be none of the bandits near the carpentum. Lucky for her - luckier still that one of the horses was close by; not abandoned, it was far too calm for that. No, dismounted - maybe the soldiers had heard something before they had. It was probable - but rather than spend precious time second guessing luck, she went with it. On the side of the saddle was a quiver and a bow - there could truly be no further proof that Diana still favored her. Dashing out of the carpentum, faster than she would have thought possible barefoot and in such a long robe, she made her way to the horse, taking the time to whisper a few calming words, stroke his long snout with one hand as she relieved the bow and quiver with the other.

“Thank you, my friend,” she touched her forehead to the horse’s, enough so that she could feel the creature wicker softly back, “I’ll bring these back after all is said and done; promise.”

The quiver was slung over her shoulder in a long practiced manner, bow still in hand. It was larger than the one she used at home, clearly made for a grown man’s frame. Without bracers, there was the risk of deeply cutting her arms, but it made no matter. Back in the carpentum, she kept the door open a sliver, enough for her to hear clearly, and peered out of the window, keeping low, holding her breath, as she looked around. This carpentum seemed to be last on the agenda, ignored, perhaps, for the others. She cursed herself for not taking a look as she should have; it could have given her a better idea of where she stood now.

To calm her mind, she gave the string of the bow a tug. It was firm; it would take all of her strength to pull it and then some. Hard, yes, but not impossible, not if she concentrated, but she would only be good for one shot.

Let’s hope that I don’t have to use it.

 

[Talon]

Marcus frowned as he examined the scene laid out before him as he came upon the last wagon in the caravan. A servant lay face down in the dirt a few steps beside the wagon, suggesting he had jumped down and attempted to flee before being cut down. The horses upon which the guards had been riding were tied to the back of the wagon, the body of one, judging by his garb, lying a few paces behind that. He lay on his side, his back to Marcus, unmoving, the dark pool of blood wetting the earth beneath him a telltale sign that he was, in fact, dead. Marcus tread carefully as he stepped over the body of the servant, his eyes scanning back and forth slowly, his feet carrying him towards the body of the soldier.

“I tried to warn him.”

Marcus froze, his sword flashing up, body shifting into a guarded stance.

“I tried to tell him that these people were not the sort you want to cross but he wouldn’t listen…”

A man emerged from behind the wagon, walking around the back of the horses into Marcus’ field of vision. This was the other guard, judging from both his garb and the weapon he held in his right hand, blade wet with blood.

Marcus cast a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure he wasn’t being snuck up on, his stance not relaxing in the slightest as he turned back to consider the guard.

The man moved slowly, almost at a shamble, as he stumbled over to the figure of his former companion, standing over him, head down.

“He couldn’t bring himself to do it...he said he’d rather die than be dishonored…”. The guard turned towards Marcus. “...and so the bastard forced my hand...he wouldn’t go through with it, in the end. He refused to let them pass!”

Marcus frowned, growling at the man, still unsure if he was dealing with war sick friend or turncoat foe. “Go through with what? Speak sense, boy…”

The man looked up at Marcus, his eyes bloodshot, widened with madness. “They have my wife...my children! They made us do it...tried to make us do it...but he wouldn’t relent! They will kill my family if they think I did not perform the task as given!”

Marcus eyes narrowed, fingers tightening along the grip of his sword. “What...task?”

“To let them through, to raise the alarm so that everyone would be distracted.”

“From what, for what?”

“The Umbra Geminos…”

“Who, or what, are the ‘Umbra Geminos’?”

The man cackled, his laughter tinged with madness. “Only the…”

TWANG

A black shafted arrow pierced through the guards throat, then, the man dropping his sword as both hands rose to grasp at his throat as if to staunch the flow of bright red blood that spurted out around the wound, collapsing to his knees, his mouth working, the only sound escaping in a wordless gurgle.

TWANG

Marcus turned towards the sound, around towards the elevated ridge line to his left side. A searing heat erupted in his left arm, the pain enough to send him staggering back a few steps. He looked down at his arm, a similarly black shafted arrow stuck out from the flesh just beside his bicep, a wickedly barbed arrowhead emerging out the opposite side. He grit his teeth against the pain, willing his feet to move, to carry him towards the cover provided by the wagon.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Toxo clicked his tongue. “Tsk, tsk tsk...Come now, brother, that was an atrociously placed shot. You’ve gone and sent the prey to ground, we’ll have to go down there and root him out…”

Up on the ridge, near it’s crest, stood two figures. Cloaked in paneula, hoods drawn, each figure held a horn bow in hand. The outside of their garments was of an earthy brown color, with each man having a random pattern of small, leafy branches attached to the outside. Their cloaks served as excellent camouflage, breaking up the outline of their form and blending them in with their surroundings, particularly at distance.

Velos’ tone was defensive. “And how was I to know he would turn at the last moment? No matter...no doubt the poison will do it’s work...we’ll simply circle back and verify after we have secured the girl.”

Toxo grinned, moving to secure his bow on his back. “You sure you don’t want to go down there now and finish the job?”

Velos scoffed, mirroring the action of his brother. “And face a wounded, cornered old dog? His teeth are still too sharp, yet. Let the nightshade run its course...he’ll not be able to fight off a common house fly by the time we return.”

Toxo nodded, a sceptical look on his face as he shifted to start moving down the opposite side of the ridge, towards the front of the caravan where the carpentum had stopped. “Father did always say that discretion was the better part of valor...I think, though, that you’re just eager to get your hands on this girl. You do recall Decius specifically instructing that we not make spoils of her womanhood, no?”

Velos frowned, as if put upon by the unspoken accusation, turning to follow a few steps behind his brother. “Of course...you of all people should know that I honor contractual rules, I am nothing if not professional. Having said that, I’m much more inclined to follow the letter of the law than the spirit. He said womanhood, he made no mention of preserving her rear hole.”

Toxo smirked, raising his hand to brush away a branch in his path, rudely allowing it to spring back and smack his brother following behind after he had passed. “Very well, I’ll not stand in your way, should you choose to take spoils...but it’s your head if Decius decides he prefers the spirit over the letter…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

From inside the carpentum the sounds of movement could be heard. First, the rustling of leaves, from the rear, the side opposite the door. Then two dull thuds, one after the other...the sound of dirt crunching beneath heel drawing closer. A lighter thud, against the rear wall of the carpentum now. Whatever had impacted with the wall was now drug against it, the light scraping sound of friction as the object, accompanied by the crunching footsteps, moved around the back of the carpentum, the sound abating as it reached the opposite side. Judging from the amount of footsteps, they were too frequent to be from only one source. Two figures emerged from behind the vehicle, moving into the field of vision granted by the window on the exit-side of the carpentum, both cloaked nearly from head to toe in earthy colored paneula that were adorned with twigs and leaves.

The figures scanned the immediate area before stopping to confer. Their accents were unfamiliar, the sing-song flow of their cadence oddly pleasant to the ear, soft, somewhat effeminate by Latin standards.

“Fine work for a bunch of slaves...Gladiatorial training does wonders to quell the natural survival instinct…”

“Indeed...shall we get to it? It looks like the guards at the front have turned the tide...they will soon overtake our would-be bandit comrades.”

“As you say. I’ll keep watch here while you secure the ‘bride’. I saw a few horses tethered to the wagon behind us, we will use them to make our escape.”

“A fine plan, brother...I’ll be about it, then.”

One of the men broke away, turning to walk towards the carpentum, making a few strides of progress before a forceful voice rang out.

“Halt! Cease whatever foul business you are about!”

The speaker could not be seen, the voice originating from the direction of the wagon that was next in line behind the carpentum, but the voice was easily identifiable as that of Mikkos, Marcus’ majordomo.

The man who had begun walking towards the carpentum turned back, taking a few steps in the opposite direction to address the newcomer. The figure who had remained still seemed to be moving something beneath his cloak, perhaps pulling something from his back.

“And why would we care to do that, honored elder?”

Mikkos appeared at the edge of the windows vantage, a gladius in hand. “You should care because Marcus Valerius will care...he will visit such vengeance upon you that…”

The hooded figure cut Mikkos off forcefully. “Marcus Valerius is dead...or soon will be. What care I for the concerns of dead men? For that matter, what care you? You are freed of his service, if you feel you must honor the man then go and put coins on his eyes for the ferryman. We take no pleasure in the killing of household slaves...simply stand aside, honored elder, and you shall live. Bar our passage further…”

Mikkos face registered shock as he weighed the man’s words, fresh tears running down his cheeks. “You lie...you’re nothing but cowardly dogs…” Mikkos lifted fingers to lips, blowing fiercely, generating a piercing shrill whistle as if to give signal.

The cloak of the man furthest away from the carpentum, the one who had not spoken, parted at the front, a short recurve bow held in outstretched hand raising up, arrow knocked, the motion smooth, fluid as the arrow was swiftly pulled back as the bow was brought level.

TWANG

The man was quick, the whole firing sequence playing out in the span of a single heartbeat. Fast, and deadly accurate. The arrow struck Mikkos in the right shoulder, the older man dropping down to one knee.

“Stay down, honored elder...be reasonable…”

The man with the bow held steady, but so far made no move to pull another arrow.

Mikkos planted the tip of the gladius into the ground, leaning on it, fingers raised to his lips as if he intended to give signal once more.

“Do it.” The hooded man who spoke turned, moving back towards the carpentum. The hooded bowman pulled arrow from quiver with an efficient, smooth motion, drawing the bowstring back.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Former First Spear Centurion Manius Barrius roared as he pressed the attack on the last remaining foe, bashing him first with his scutum before taking a step forward and lunging with a thrust of his gladius, jamming the length of the blade into his opponents guts. He pulled the blade free, ramming it forth again, closing the distance with the man to once more shout, this time directly into his face, staring into his eyes as he watched the light slowly ebb from them. His hackles were up, bloodlust in full effect after the last few minutes of tense combat.

He turned then, looking to the one remaining guardsmen who was still able to keep his feet standing a few paces behind him, the man taking in vast gulps of air, hands behind his head. He’d lost one to injury, another would probably live but was not able to walk. All things considered it was a fine showing, seeing as they had been outnumbered ten to four at the start.

“Fantastic job, men...we made those bastards pay with their lives, we let not a single man pass. You’ve made me proud, and I’m sure I speak for the General when I say you’ve made him…”

A shrill whistle cut through the air, from off behind their position, back near the wagons.

Manius’ head shot around, eyes scanning. He saw two hooded figures outside of the carpentum, another on their knees a few meters beyond them. It was too far to make out details, but clearly something was wrong. Manius looked to his last able bodied guard, nodding affirmatively.

“With me...let's move!”

Manius set off at a run, setting as fast a pace as he could while encumbered by the full length scutum held against his shield arm.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

How was it that her heart could have beat so swiftly for one reason, then the complete opposite in what felt like a matter of mere moments? She kept silent, as silent as her racing heart would allow her, dropped into a crouch beneath the window, careful to keep out of sight. A hand reached behind her; touched the arrow heads in the quiver. It was full; good luck - but her ability to let loose each one was in question. She had one shot -

No, Goddess Diana, give me more. Give me as many until my body falls with honor. See me through this, and I will give you my most precious possession.

There were many that would bargain with the gods, offer things that they would either fail to give or give begrudgingly. Gaia had no such inclinations: all that she had given had been done freely, with a thankfulness that bolstered her spirit into the highest climes of joy. Now, she swallowed, blinked sweat out of her eyes. It was the sweat of fear, the same fear that bid her now to shrink into as small as a ball as possible, to evade detection.

By my ancestors, I will not cower here. I may not be able to do much, but something is better than nothing. Diana, give me courage, guide my arrow, still my hand.

It will be like hunting rabbits. Patience, quiet, stillness - A deep breath taken in, held, as she crept on silent, bare feet towards the door of the carpentum. A slow exhale, her breath damp over slightly parted lips as she notched an arrow to the bow. A bite to her lower lip to stifle the groan of effort it took to pull the string taunt, another held breath as she kept it pulled, waiting for her shot.

Rabbit.

How far was the man with the bow? Paces. Easily closed if he runs. He is the clear threat. The one closest by, he can be distracted. Is distracted. I will outrun him.

No hesitation there; confidence in her ability. Outrun him and get to Tenebris.

Unnoticed by the first hooded man, she crept closer to the cracked door, arrow drawn, blood beading from her lower lip.

Rabbit throat.

Rabbit throat.

Rabbit throat.

Without squinting, without closing an eye, she let the arrow fly.

Had the man been a target, had she been standing, had the bow been one she was familiar with, it was quite possible that she could have made a killing shot. What she was able to muster was a solid shot into the archer’s predominant arm: he’d given it away with his first arrow. And while it would not kill him, it would destroy his ability to draw.

It would impact cleanly beneath the right collarbone, passing under the bone and through muscle and tendon like hot butter, only coming to rest as it collided and splintered the scapula upon impact. Had she been stronger, it was possible that the arrow would have had enough power to pass through entirely, instead of lodge deeply into muscle and skin.

There was no time for a whoop of celebration; no incredulousness at her shot. Only time enough to dash from behind the narrowly closed door. She’d taken advantage of the howl of pain from the archer, the confusion of his compatriot, to rush past him; little more than a blur of white and saffron veil, running like she was racing the wind himself.

Open ground. Need cover. Where?

A familiar whinny, an expression of comfort, concern.

Horses. Tenebris.

It may have been foolhardy, asking for a torturous death instead of a quick one - but she rolled to her belly in the dirt, beneath the hooves of the horses, narrowly avoiding their frantic stamping. All but Tenebris, who stood, ears up and alert, scanning the horizon. She was unable to sit up fully under the horse, but she was able to come up on her arms, just a bit. Enough to inch forward, half-way hidden beneath the long mane, the thick legs, until her arms were clear, she had the room to angle the bow, to fight against the screaming in her arms to notch another arrow.

I’m sure you’ve followed me. I need but just wait.

Her feet were cut and bruised from running over the bare stone path, her arms shook from the strain of the bow, dust and sweat in her eyes. Blood trailed lazily from her left forearm, where the bangles and bracelets hadn't been enough to protect her from the snap back of the draw string. But she was alive, breathing hard, waiting, praying.

One last shot, Goddess, Diana, please. Give me the one last shot - something, anything, to keep him from coming.

She wouldn't have to wait long. Hurried footsteps, legs scissoring in and out of that brown cloak.

Running rabbit.

She had to squint now, close one eye, try to keep the worst of the sweat and dust out of it.

Running rabbit, hind leg, no kill shot -

The arrow was loosed.

Passed through the loose fabric of the cloak, skimming off of a calf. Not enough to take him down, but enough to alert her of her presence.

"You...!"

It was a growl of barely fettered rage: rage at being foiled, at being inconvenienced. As he made his way towards her, she was frozen -

Do I move, do I stay, do I try to get another sho-

The last thought was shaken from her as Tenebris made the choice for her. He reared up, screaming. If his stature had been impressive before, it was monstrous now. And enough of a distraction to allow Gaia to roll to her feet, bow still grasped, and make another run for it.

One more shot. Diana, bless Tenebris, keep him safe -

The horse was still screaming, his front hooves raining down in killing blows. A war charger indeed, for although he was tethered, he was nimble on his feet, as if dancing, striking, biting, managing to keep his vital spots out of reach -

This second run wasn't along the lines of the carpentum, or looking for the safety for a wagon. This run was out and to the side, so that she would be parallel with her purser, in the eyesight of the guard, though her back was to them.

My most precious thing for my life -

With shaking, lacerated fingers, she notched another arrow, her arms visibly shaking now from the strain, her chest heaving up and down as the air burned her lungs. She straightened her stance, barefoot, her once white bridal robe befouled with dirt and blood, the edges tattered and torn, her veil ragged -

Noticing her, her assailant switched, to run towards her. Her bow was too high; her arrow, too high -

Charging boar.

Almost at the last second, when he was nearly upon her, her arms and head dropped, the arrow loosened below his knees. Impaling the flapping cloak, her arrow impacted squarely to the broad section of his calf, missing the shin bone, to lodge within the ball of flesh there. It was not a clean shot, at an angle, awkward, but enough to stop the man in his tracks, to change his attention from the woman in front of him to the scream of pain in his leg.

As the voices of the soldiers grew closer, she whirled to face them, a wild thing in her tattered garments, bloodied, struggling to lift her bow for yet another shot, but not having the strength to do so.

 

[Talon]

Manius Barrius came to a halt several paces from where Gaia stood, raising his shield to signal that his subordinate should follow suit. He’d watched the desperate scene play out before him, Gaia’s efforts to fight off her would be captors, relegated to serve as a spectator due to his distance from it. It turned out his assistance hadn’t been needed, after all. In a development he could scarcely believe, one he otherwise wouldn’t have believed had he not seen it with his own eyes, she had managed to not only keep her assailants at bay, but she had bested them, soundly. It had taken its toll on her, judging from both the state of her dress and the expression she wore, but all things considered, she had done well for herself. Had he seen this same scene play out as an audience member in the arena, he’d have been on his feet, giving raucous applause. As is, the look he wore upon his stony face was equal parts incredulity, approval, and disappointment that he’d been left out of the action.

He gestured towards the cloaked man Gaia had shot in the calf, the one still close enough to her person to potentially pose a threat, barking an order to the guard who stood at his shoulder. “Bind their hands and feet and set them apart, far enough that they cannot share words or gestures without detection.”

The guard didn’t immediately move to comply with his orders, his eyes fixed on Gaia, a look of bewilderment worn plainly on his visage. He looked young, likely around the same age or perhaps a year Gaia’s junior.

“Lucius...you have your orders…”. Manius spoke firmly, but not without some measure of understanding. The young man had just survived a fierce battle, sprinted for a considerable distance in full battle armor and watched as a bride still adorned in her wedding garments fought off two would be assassins. It had thus far been an eventful afternoon for the both of them.

“Sir…” The young man was spurned to movement then, casting his glance down and away from her as if he was ashamed to have been caught gawking. He moved around Gaia, careful to give her a wide berth, seemingly more out of deference than fear, before roughly planting a sandaled foot on the chest of the hooded man who knelt a few paces behind her, sending him sprawling backwards to the paved stone beneath them.

Manius reversed his grip on his gladius, sliding it home into its scabbard at his right hip before turning and moving to set his scutum down against the front wheel of the carpentum. He reached up to unfasten the clasp of his sagnum, pulling it from his shoulders as he moved a few steps towards Gaia, offering the cloak to her with outstretched hand, his eyes cast down in respect. The cloak was of a deep crimson, the color soldiers wore when on campaign.

“My lady…”

The young guard, who shared the name of her eldest brother, Lucius, made quick work of binding the two cloaked figures hands and feet behind their backs. He had removed their hoods and cloaks during the process, revealing for the first time their appearance. They were twins, identical in face and build, with what would readily be described as handsome features; light sandy blonde hair, chiseled jaw, strong chin, slightly hooked nose, deep set, hazel eyes that glared out from under a strong brow. The dark tunics they wore beneath a black leather protective cuirass were also identical, and of fine make. Besides bow and quiver, both men had been armed with a xiphos and a long dagger.

Manius had busied himself with dressing Mikkos’ wound as the young soldier worked to secure the prisoner. Thankfully the arrowhead had gone clean through his shoulder, enabling Manius to cut it and pull the shaft back through the wound before applying a dressing. Manius made quick work of patching up Mikkos, as if it were not the first or even hundredth time he’d done similarly, and offered to do the same for Gaia then, should she think any of her injuries required attention. A few of the surviving servants had emerged from their hiding spots amongst the wagons and had begun to mill about as Mikkos, now back on his feet and still carrying the gladius, began to give direction to set them to task,

A figure emerged from behind the second wagon, then, moving quickly as it approached the front. As it drew closer it became clear that it was a woman, the young servant who had assisted Gaia when the caravan had stopped to refresh, Philomena. She reached the carpentum and the group of important people that stood outside it, breathless from both exertion and excitement, her eyes wide and full of tears, a short broom clutched in her hands. She managed to speak between breaths, apparently decideding that Gaia was the proper one to address from amongst the three.

“Domina...the Dominus...not well...need help...he call for you...for Gaia...”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


A few minutes earlier…


Philomena lay hidden amongst the cargo in the third wagon, the back of her wrist pressed to her mouth to suppress both involuntary exclamations of fear and the sounds of her labored breathing. She’d heard the initial violent struggle between the guards, the scream of pain as the man who had been driving the wagon was cut down, the conversation between the surviving guard and a man who sounded like her Dominus. She’d heard something, someone, take refuge beside the wagon, and, now minutes later, could hear what sounded like heavy breathing and vocalizations of discomfort. She couldn’t be sure who it was out there, nor did she feel it was safe enough to check. She gnawed at the skin of her wrist with her lips.

What if it is Dominus? Will I not be punished if I simply let him lie there, in need? He’s not a particularly kind man, but he’s never raised hand to me, nor have I seen him strike the others out of anger. What if he needs help?

Philomena, locked into inaction due to overwhelming fear, remained in silence, crouched there inside the wagon. She couldn’t be sure how much time had passed, but she felt the muscles of her thighs begin to burn as if she had been holding this awkward position long enough for fatigue to start to set in. It wasn’t enough to overpower her survival instinct, however, and so she remained hidden.

“Gaia...please…” A masculine voice called out, hoarse and ragged.

Gaia...the Domina? Why would the guard call out for her? It must be the Dominus...but what if those men are still out there...I don’t have a weapon, and even if I did, I don’t know how to fight, I’m just a slave, I wouldn’t stand a chance against those men…

Philomena reached out carefully, passing her hand over the objects around her in the bed of the wagon, searching for something, anything, she could use to defend herself with. Her fingers wrapped around a wooden haft near the front of the wagon. A broom! The broom the driver uses to sweep out the back of the wagon once it’s emptied. It would be a poor excuse for a weapon against someone armed for war, but in the moment, it would have to do. She remained crouched there for a few heartbeats, building up her courage, before she cautiously raised her head up, over the side of the wagon bed, to scan the area around her.

The scene was horrifying. Widened eyes took in the sight of the bodies as the smell of blood and emptied bowels hit her nostrils. Once more she pressed the back of her wrist to her mouth, this time in an effort to suppress her urge to vomit up the contents of her stomach.

Focus, Philomena, it’s just dead men, men who would likely have meant you harm.

She couldn’t see her Dominus, likely he lay closer to the wagon outside of her field of view, but she also couldn’t see anyone still moving. Deciding then that there were no immediate threats present she stood, still hunched over as if ready to drop to safety the moment she had cause, and moved towards the front of the wagon to disembark.

Once on the ground she found Marcus lying up against the wheel of the wagon in an awkward position, his legs splayed open, head and shoulders propped up against the surface behind him, a sword gripped in his right hand and an arrow stuck into the flesh of his upper left arm. He looked sickly, his skin drenched in sweat, head rolling from side to side, his breathing frantic and shallow, eyes screwed shut forcefully. He spoke then, the sudden sound enough to give Philomena a start.

“Gaia…”

The hoarse tone of his voice gave her goose pimples, it was like hearing a dying man call out for his mother in desperate need of comfort. She was fearful of the blade he held, fearful that he would lash out with it if her presence startled him, but in the moment she felt compelled to offer words of comfort.

“I go now, Dominus, I bring her…” Philomena felt a tear hit her cheek. She hesitated a moment, before turning away. “Please, don’t die, Dominus...I bring her…”

If Dominus heard her attempt at words of comfort, he gave no outward sign. Philomena turned away, setting off towards the front of the caravan at a run, broom clutched protectively to her breast.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Marcus couldn’t be sure that the hidden bowman, or men, more likely, didn’t have a bead on him, that they wouldn’t put an arrow through his eye as soon as he stepped out from behind cover. Even if he thought he could move fast enough when at full capacity to avoid such a fate, he was in no condition to attempt it. Upon taking up position behind the wagon he had expected to rest there for only a moment, enough time to allow for both the initial shock of injury to pass and for him to strategize. That moment never came. His pulse failed to slow, remaining elevated to the point where the incessant pounding at his temple began to feel like someone tapping on his skull with a hammer. He felt feverish, breaking out into a full body sweat, and could scarcely open his eyes beyond merely a crack, the light of the sun was simply too bright. As it was he sat with his back against the wheel of the wagon, legs stretched out before him, sword resting across the top of his thighs, the hand of his injured left arm resting open on the ground beside him.

He found he could still move the fingers of his left hand, which was a positive sign, but attempting to bend his injured arm at the elbow caused a searing pain at the site of the wound so intense that, when coupled with the pounding in his skull, it caused his vomit reflex to trigger. He’d managed to turn his head to the side before spewing the contents of his stomach, which thankfully were minimal, little more than water and bile. Blind as he was he couldn’t be sure his aim had been true, but in that moment, a clean tunic seemed to be the least of his concerns.

I’ll just rest here a moment, then I will find whoever did this...I’ll find them and cut their fucking balls off and feed them to them…

“I don’t think you will, Marcus. You're pathetic...always have been, always will be. You promised you would look after your new wife, right? Well...how’s that going, then? Do you think she is feeling protected right about now?”

Marcus scowled, recognizing the sickly sweet tone of the speaker. “....Drusilla?”

“Why the questioning tone, my love...has it been so long that you’ve forgotten the sound of my voice? Open your eyes and let memory be refreshed.”

“I’d rather not...simply hearing you speak is more than enough to turn my stomach.”

Drusilla laughed, her tone harsh, mocking. “You’d rather not, or can’t? It is as I said, you’re truly pathetic. One little scratch and you fall to pieces. What kind of a man can’t even open his eyes, hmm? Would it help entice you if I told you that I was in the nude, spread out before you? That, in order to experience ultimate pleasure, you simply need open your eyes?”

Marcus held his tongue.

“Come now, Marcus...don’t you miss it? Don’t you wish you could have just one last taste? You used to love to lick me down there, for hours sometimes. I’d practically have to beat you away with a stick…”

“Stop.”

“Do you really want me to stop, Marcus? I’ll make you a deal...open your eyes and take a look. If you decide then that you still want me to leave, I will.”

“I’ll make no such deal…”

“And what if I told you her life depended on it?”

“Her who?”

“Don’t play coy with me, my love...you know exactly who ‘she’ is. None other than the fat-bottomed whore who you now call wife.”

Marcus growled. “Careful how you speak of her, witch…”

“Or what, Marcus, you’ll ‘cut my fucking balls off and feed them to me’? Hah! I’d like to see you try...go on then, hit me, if you think you’re man enough. Or maybe you don’t care that I have her here, gagged, with a blade at her throat?”

“What do you want, she-devil?”

“I told you what I want...open your fucking eyes you pathetic maggot, or I slit this slut’s throat!”

Marcus’ eyes flew open as he roared. “That’s it…”

Inches before his face was a scene of horror. As terrible as the sight of Drusilla’s face would have been, this was by far more terrifying. It was the face of a gorgon, not unlike the one he had seen in his pre-wedding night dreams, but he had never been this close. He could make out every detail of its features, from its golden, serpent like eyes to its sharply fanged maw, teeth dripping with ichor and breath reeking of rotten flesh. Perhaps even worse than its appearance was the expression it wore on its face, one of smug contentment, its mouth twisted in a wickedly sardonic grin.

Marcus felt himself seizing up as he locked eyes with the creature, felt himself slowing petrifying.

“Asss I sssaid...Pathetic…”

Marcus ‘awoke’ with a start, his motion causing his upper body to twist as he jerked, a hiss of pain from between clenched teeth as the sudden movement elicited a sharp pain at the site of his wound. His head was pounding, his pulse still thumping in his ears, almost loud enough to mask the ambient sounds of the world around him. He called out the first name that came to mind, a desperate call for assistance.

“Gaia...please…” His voice was ragged and hoarse, it felt drier than the harshest desert, like sand baking in the midday sun.

“Save your strength, friend...she won’t hear you, no one living can hear you down here.”

Marcus’ head lifted. It was a masculine voice, one he didn’t recognize off the top of his memory. It sounded youthful, and it’s owner possessed an accent that was unfamiliar to Marcus’ ear. Despite the accent, the voice spoke in perfect Latin, as if they were a native speaker.

“You had a nightmare...it’s common for those who are newly arrived. You can open your eyes, friend, whatever grievous injury led to you arriving here has passed.”

Marcus opened his eyes a sliver...wherever he was, it was dark, much darker than it had been before, soothingly devoid of the bright light that had threatened to sear his eyes. “Where…” As he spoke, he noted that the sensation of overwhelming dryness in his throat was gone. He didn’t feel refreshed, as if he had recovered from his injuries, but they were simply no longer of concern, couldn’t be of concern, as he was no longer afflicted.

“You are at the end of your journey...amongst those who cannot pay their toll…”

Marcus’ eyes opened fully as he sat up, looking around him to survey his surroundings. He lay on the bank of a vast river, a dark river, a river so dark that it’s water reflected no light, and beyond the presence of ripples at its surface, it would have been impossible to identify it’s liquid form. The area around him was inundated with people, or what had once been people, his instincts told him. Souls.

“Look upon me, now...don’t you recognize me, old friend?”

Marcus’ head turned towards the source of the voice, at his right shoulder. Standing over him was a man, or what was once a man, a young man. His features were plain, as if he wore the face of a thousand different men Marcus had crossed paths with during his lifetime. The tone of his skin was pallid, devoid of any of the coloring of life, and the iris’ of his eyes were a haunting pale white. He wore the clothing of a warrior, stained dark around his left side where his clothing had been ripped by the piercing thrust of a blade, what would have been a death blow, what likely was.

Marcus' eyes narrowed as recognition flashed across his visage; he knew not this man’s name, but he recalled that face, the face of the first man he had killed in battle, a young Etruscan soldier who had fought in the armies of Lucius Antonius. Marcus scrambled backwards on his hands, attempting to put enough distance between himself and the man to allow him to stand up.

“Calm yourself, I am not here for vengeance, I’ve come to terms with my lot. I’m here to help you come to terms with yours…”

Marcus stammered, his eyes shifting back and forth as he tried to rationalize this new development.

“You are amongst those who cannot pay the toll, those who are condemned to wait along the shore here for a hundred years until their soul is once more spun back into the cycle…”

Marcus shook his head. “It cannot be so...even if I had died...surely someone would have…”

The figure moved a few steps towards him, crouching down, placing a gentle hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “I know...it is difficult to come to bear with the realization that this is your lot. The feeling will eventually pass, though...it took me thirteen years to calm the fire that burned within. You are not without company, however. Look now upon the countless dead who fell on foreign battlefields, who were not permitted their proper burial rites.”

The figure stood and moved aside, gesturing with a sweeping motion of his arm. Along the bank of the dark river stood thousands, millions, all in various states of battle dress, originating from numerous Hellenic cultures, born of numerous time periods. Marcus’ mouth hung agape, his head still shaking with denial.

“It cannot be so...she would not leave me…”

Marcus turned then, away from the ghastly sight, his fingers clawing at the black sand beneath him, scrambling up to his feet as he sought escape. He ran then, blindly, his arms pumping, legs striding, he ran until he felt a stitch forming in his side from the exertion. He slowly came to a stop, bending forward at the waist, hands on his knees, drawing in deep gulps of air as he sought to refresh himself.

“All that way and yet here you are…”

Marcus turned, finding himself standing once more in the exact spot he had been, the same man standing beside him, the countless forms of the other spirits stretched out along the bank of the river before him. Marcus brought his hands to his face, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. Once more he spoke her name, as if simply saying it would summon her, make her appear before him, would bring her to rouse him from what must be a terrible dream.

“Gaia…”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Her blood was still rushing in her ears, lighting in her veins. The world seemed all too slow as the soldiers approached her.

Great Goddess, is it over?

She was shaking, her chest still heaving with her exertion. Still, she stayed glued to the spot, her legs refusing to obey her, her mind awash with suggestions but unable to decide on one. Her eyes were focused, too focused, on the movements of Manius, but there was a hollowness there, a familiar distant stare that saw through Manius and past him to focus on absolutely nothing at all that he would have seen on the faces of many a young soldier after surviving the first battle. To see it on a woman would be all the more haunting, all the more disturbing.

The name “Lucius” was a finger-snap in her ear, and her vision cleared, focused on the present than some far distance. There was a mild shaking of her head, a furrowing of her brow, a rubbing of her face with one bloodied palm. Time returned back to her, followed by hearing and smell. The whinnies of the horses, calling to one another to reassure themselves, the voices of the servants as they tended to their wounded, the groans of those hurt. The smell of crushed and dry grass, the sickening stench of blood, the fresh stink of recently emptied bowels. And then the voice of Manius - a soldier to her, a nameless man that was offering her a heavy red cloak.

“It’s too hot for such a thing.” Her voice was distant, struggling to focus. It was such an odd comment; in different circumstances, it could have been something to laugh at, or considered rude. In the current situation, it was the tell-tale of shock, of desperation to make sense of the world around her. Manius, with the understanding of his profession, would fasten his cloak back around his shoulders, watching her. Her grip on the bow was so tight that her brown knuckles were paling, blood lazily trailing from her palms from where her short nails bit into them, disguised by the abrasions gained from her dash across the ground.

“There, now, my lady…” He forced his voice into calm; recognizing that he was in a state of mild shock himself. Not from the battle, but from seeing what she had been capable of. If the use of the bow had not been enough, she had run with the speed of a messenger, neither which seemed to directly align with the finery that she was clothed in. Closer to her now, now that he knew what to look for, he was faintly surprised that he hadn’t suspected something before - the build of her legs, the molding of her arms that her rolled up and torn sleeves revealed. No Noblewoman he’d encountered had forearms like that. “It’s over.”

No entreaties to let go of the bow, to undo the quiver. No sudden movements to spook her - the same words over and over, hoping to reach through to her. “It’s over. It’s over.”

The movement of Lucius was enough to snap her attention back to her would be assailants, and her expression turned from one of blank horror to rage, already preparing to draw again, save for Manius’s movements, taking advantage of her distraction to grasp her hands, her arms. It was rougher than he would have liked, he knew, but he wasn’t entirely sure if she would fight back against him or submit: either way, he didn’t need her killing the men before he had chance to question them. In his arms, she shivered, stilled; whirled back to look at him. He needn’t have worried; though she had made the motion to draw, the violent shaking of her arms, the way her muscles felt like jelly beneath his hands were evidence that she did not have the strength to do it. There was a push against his arms, a flexing within them as she tried to free herself, then, her voice -

“You can let go.” No imperious nature there, no disgust at being manhandled. A thankfulness, if anything, tripping along her words. Manius did so, glancing down at the palms of his hands. They were covered in a mix of that red ochre, smears of her blood darker than its warm brown color. Rubbing the thumb and forefinger of his right hand together, his mouth drew firm.

A new bride, having to face this. The thought brought cold rage behind his eyes. Only by the Gods that she was able to hold her own. Had she not…

The thought was a blade through his stomach. There would be much that these men would have to pay for.

“I…” She turned her head away from the two men being bound. Her teeth began to chatter violently, the rest of her body giving way to trembling that made it seem that if any minute, her legs would give out. “What’s happening?” The words were stammered out between those violent shivers, the clatter of the bow as she dropped it. Her legs gave out, and she sprawled on the ground, her knees together, her legs out as she continued to shake. “I’m so cold,” her eyes were scared, now, dark brown orbs glancing around the chaos trying to make sense of what was happening.

“Shock,” Manius replied, taking the opportunity to drape the pre-offered cloak around her shoulders. In his manner, it was clear that it would be unwise to take it off. She huddled under it, seemed to shrink. “It will pass, my Lady.”

“…My brother never told me of such things,” and she managed, surprisingly enough, to let out a small laugh, diced into halting parts as she continued to shiver, rubbing her arms under the cloak. It smelled of sweat and the heavy musk of men, unfamiliar in its specifics. “His war stories were always full of brave men charging forward, no thought to anyone else but their brothers.” Gaia was attempting to stand now, as clumsy as a newborn foal. Her first attempt had her falling again, her second, bent over awkwardly, but the third, she was on her feet again, shaking though her legs were. She grasped the cloak tightly around her neck and shoulders.

“He thought to spare the worst details, as we all do.” Manius looked down at her, this strange woman from an foreign family, and not for the first time since he’d seen her with the bow, wondered exactly who she was. Some nymph or dryad, masquerading as human, humoring herself, maybe. Had she been one of his soldiers, there wouldn’t have been such coddling; a rough clap on the shoulder, a congratulations on their survival, maybe, and then back to the line. He found himself at a loss with her; she needed the time to get through the shock, he was aware of that much. But time was a luxury that they did not have. These assailants were to be questioned, they needed to get back on the road. But better yet: where was Marcus?

It seemed no sooner than Manius thought it that the slave girl, Philomena, was there, asking for Gaia. Gaia’s face paled, insofar as he could tell through the rich brown of her skin, and she was following Philomena, glancing back at him to follow.

He did.









“I’m here,” came Gaia’s voice, as she knelt beside Marcus. Since the trembling before, she felt plunged into a deep pool, but with no urgency to break the surface. She needed to act; falling apart would have to come later. She had been called, her life had been spared, and she had much to still yet ask for. The sight of him was enough to make her feel ill; to startle her. Had she her wits about her, it would have been easy to faint, to shriek, to think the worst. It felt like before her wedding, she would have reacted in such a way, calling for a servant, some family member, to come fix this. Though she hadn’t been too close to either parent, she still felt instinctively that she could have run to them with any problem too large for her to fix, or better yet, to the kind eyes of Lucius to protect her.

But Lucius is not here. There is only me and the Gods and Goddesses, and they have favored me so far. I will not consider myself abandoned yet.

Her hands, bloodied as they were, cupped the side of Marcus’s face; she pressed her lips to his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks, smearing her own blood and dirt across them, mixed with his sweat.

He feels odd. Not warm; cold.

Her eyes narrowed, and she put some space between herself and him, her eyes scanning his body for any injury. There - the arrow.

“Can you treat this?” She turned back to Manius, her tone stern, but not short. Matter of fact; a woman moving through the motions, a woman who would not allow herself to fall apart, no matter how much she wanted to.

“An arrow wound? Yes; there have been a few of them,” and Manius knelt - before he took a closer look at the arrow. It was different from the one that he’d pulled from Mikkos; a detail only he would have noticed. “This arrow is different,” he said, kneeling on the other side of Marcus.

“Different how?” Gaia shifted to allow Manius closer, but her hands had left the side of Marcus’s face to feel his forehead, and even as she spoke, she pried open one of his eyelids. Watched as his eye reacted to the light. Gently slipped fingers into his mouth, probed his tongue. Pressed her hand to his chest.

The black part of his eye is too large. His mouth is too dry. His heart is racing, though there’s no sign of fever.

“I think he’s been poisoned,” she said, quickly, standing. Fear was slipping back into her words. “I don’t know..” Her voice was hiccuping, catching round words that she was unable to get out for terror. She suddenly bit her lower lip, causing blood to flow from wounds that had just stopped bleeding.

Focus, Gaia. What happens when the cattle get into the wrong plants? He is still here, and as long as he is, there is hope.

“I don’t know what with,” she managed, her teeth shining red from her blood, “But we cannot rest here if he is to recover. Soldier, move him to the carpentum that I was in. Philomena, bring me water, and lots of it. I will be with you in moments, if the Goddess still watches me.”







From the wagons and the carpentums, Gaia’s fading white form could be seen wandering into the high grasses that bordered the road, creeping on tender feet, kneeling, vanishing within the grasses, before standing again. The motions would repeat over and over, wandering further and further away, before she would vanish entirely. Before alarm could be raised, she was standing and wading through the grasses, her robe now spattered with streaks of green and yellow, crushed grass and pollen. In the folds of her robe she held several stalks of a flower, pulled up roots and all, more rich dirt splattering the front of her clothing.

It would not take much longer for her to come through the doors of her carpentum, Marcus on the floor, Philomena mopping his brow, Manius by his other side, keeping watch at the door for any further attack. He had done swift work once Marcus had been settled in - breaking and removing the arrow as it had passed cleanly.

“Herba militaris,” he said, shaking his head in mild surprise. Would this woman cease to amaze him?

Gaia nodded, before she was she was stripping the stalks of the leaves. “Thank you for removing the arrow.”

“Thought it would be best if it was poisoned,” his response was short as he watched her. Philomena kept mopping his brow, her hands shaking.

“Philomena, please clean the wound with water while I prepare this.” The woman, still wide-eyed with fear, nodded dumbly and instantly moved her hands to sponge away the worst of the blood and dirt from the wound.

No time to make a paste. It will be fine. The Gods will provide.

Gaia took in a mouthful of the leaves, chewed them. Grimaced at the taste, and spat them out into her palm. Stripping more leaves, she repeated the same - mouthful, chew, spit. In her palm, once a sizable amount of leaf paste was there, she moved to gently pat the paste into the wound, for good measure, adding a few of the un-chewed leaves to it. While she had been doing that, Manius had left, going to retrieve clean dressings. By the time he’d returned, Gaia was done, and she was cradling Marcus against her chest. Holding out a hand for the water skin, Philomena gave it to her. Gaia took in a mouthful, then, leaned over Marcus, kissing him. The motion was enough to force some water into his throat - pulling back, she waited until she saw his Adam’s apple bob, indicating that he had swallowed. There was a small, grim smile on her face then. More water, another kiss, and again, then again, until water bubbled from between the seal of their lips. Withdrawing, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes locked on him. His chest was moving slower now, his breathing not as panicked. That was something.

“He’ll take no more, for now. He will need to rest,” she handed the water skin back to Philomena, “And we will need to move, swiftly if there’s any hope for him. Please ensure that all water skins are full. Make space in the last wagon for the honorable dead for us to bury them when we have the chance. Leave the bandits to rot where they are.” The smallest hint of deep malice there, no pity for those who would have harmed her, who had killed so many already.

He’s not gone yet. I ask for your favor once more, Chaste Diana - Loving Venus - keep him alive. Bring him back to health. I know I have asked much this day, and I thank you beyond my mortal flesh - but please, just a bit longer.

“Soldier.” An awkward pause. “I’m sorry; what is your name?”

Manners, at a time like this - had it not been so dire, he knew he would have smiled. “Manius Barrius.”

“Manius, then - please, take your remaining men and let Marcus’s man know that we must be moving forward as swiftly as possible. If you need my aid, let me know, but I would prefer to stay here and monitor his progress. The Herba militaris will work only to stop the bleeding, but if he’s poisoned as I feared, I..” Her voice choked, caught on the words.

Manius put a hand on her shoulder, letting her know that no further words were needed. “As you wish, my Lady.”









Within the next thirty minutes, what felt like an eternity to Gaia, the carpentum was moving again, and she was blessedly, thankfully, alone, though Philomena wanted to stay with her. No, Gaia had said, sending her away to help with the rest of the servants, to tend to them, to be with her friends there for them to soothe her - and to allow Gaia room to finally, finally break down.

It came as sudden as spring rain. She was sitting on the floor of the carpentum, Marcus beside her, and her vision blurred. One fat tear, then another - then the deluge. She would not scream, no, there would be time for that later. But she sobbed, loud, long, until her eyes were swollen and red, until she could no longer breathe from her nostrils, until she hiccuped and her shaking had returned in earnest. Delayed fear had quickened her bladder, churned her guts, but only once had she asked for them to stop, as not to befoul the carpentum. On the side of the road, like a beggar, she had both released her bladder and vomited - but rather than allow herself time to recover, as soon as she’d purged herself, she was limping back to the carpentum, her wounds beginning to throb as feeling returned to her. Her feet, the gashes in her arm from the bow, the bruises from her tumbling beneath the horses, all started to hum in unison.

Sitting was painful, but that she could bear with. Pain, yes, but not knowing? That was enough to drive her mad. She wouldn’t take her eyes off of Marcus, even as she sobbed, hoping, waiting, for some sign that he would recover. That this nightmare would pass, and he would be well again. She’d read of love in stories, in the scandalous volumes of poetry that the servant girls had and tittered over, and she knew she did not feel such a way. How could she - this man was not but a stranger to her over a day ago. But affection? Yes, that was there, she could admit. She wanted no harm to befall him - but more than that, she didn’t want to be alone.

“Please, open your eyes. Don’t leave me like this,” she murmured against his forehead as she leaned down to kiss him there, to feel his temperature, the pattern of his breathing. His dressing, once white, was smeared with the paste of the chewed leaves, but was otherwise clean. It would be too early still to tell if foulness had set into the wound; hopefully the washing with water would help. He still breathed, and that was enough to make her smile, enough for her to find the roots of humor that she felt were long buried.

“You manhandle me, you infuriate me, you confuse me, and now you have the audacity to try and leave me? You truly are a shameless man,” a laugh that caught on a sob as she wiped her eyes again, trying to staunch a new flow of tears, “And all of this without quenching the burning in my body. If you get through this, I demand that you put a child in me.” She leaned down, grasping his uninjured arm around his wrist, while she curled his limp fingers across her wrist in a parody of a man’s handshake. “We’ve shaken on it, so you can’t go back on it,” she said, letting her hand trail from his wrist to thread her fingers in his, gently squeezing them. “And if I’m not with child after our first time, well, then, we’re going to have to keep trying until I am.”

 

[Talon]

Marcus seemed to maintain a peaceful slumber for the duration of their journey, outwardly exhibiting positive signs that he was on the path to recovery. His sleep seemed to be more restful, like his current lack of consciousness was due more to fatigue than a shutdown of his body in order to combat whatever substance he had been poisoned with. Occasionally his right hand would squeeze Gaia’s arm or whatever part of her was nearest to it in a firm, deliberate grasp that seemed to convey that he was unconsciously comforted by her physical presence, almost as if he sought to ground himself to her.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


The last leg of the trip passed without further interruption, with the caravan finally lurching to a stop in the courtyard outside of the entrance to the villa a few hours after the sun had dipped below the horizon.

The villa and the surrounding plot of land was a fairly recent addition to the Valerius family holdings Beyond the fact that it was a desirable estate due to its size, the quality of the local soil and proximity to the coastline, the estate was located in an area where some of Rome’s most wealthy and influential citizens owned property, with Augustus’ own personal villa located just a few miles to the south. The Valerius Estate was along the outskirts of this prestigious region, positioned against the northern edge.

The villa itself was constructed against a ridge that overlooked the sea on the western edge of the property, providing both a scenic view across the water below and a measure of natural security from potential invaders. Jagged outcroppings of rocks set against the base of a sheer cliff face made the prospect of scaling it in order to gain entry into the villa above a dangerous one. The three remaining sides of the compound that were not afforded a natural defensive posture were protected by a perimeter wall, one that left enough space within to allow for a front courtyard that featured a lavish garden complete with rows of elaborately trimmed hedges and a large pool beside the villa on the southern side. Marcus had readily shared access to the property with his mother, Marina, and had permitted her to make most of the aesthetic choices for decor. As such, it reflected a distinctly Greek influence, almost as if the villa had been plucked from the shores surrounding Athens to be set down here in the heart of the Italian peninsula.

Gaia could hear Mikkos set about organizing the unloading of goods with great haste, utilizing the labor of the servants that were housed at the estate primarily to allow for those who had traveled with the caravan to seek medical attention and take rest where needed. Once his crew had been set to task, she heard a gentle rap of knuckles against the carpentum door, followed by a pause that would allow the occupants enough warning in case they needed to make themselves decent. The door opened, then, with Mikkos popping his head inside.

“Domina...I’ve taken the liberty of setting the servants to their tasks, and I’ve sent a few strong men to fetch a litter for the Dominus, they should be arriving shortly. Assuming you have no objections, I have also taken the liberty of assigning Philomena to continue to see to your personal needs for the time being. I’m on my way now to the kitchen to cancel the arrangements for tonight's feast, please send word if you require anything of me.”



Manius and the young guardsman, Lucius, seemed to be making preparations for an immediate departure despite how recently they had arrived. The pair approached Gaia once she had left the carpentum, with Manius taking the lead in addressing her.

“Pardon me, my lady, I know this has been a rough several hours and you’d likely rather take rest than engage in discussion, but if you’ll allow me to bend your ear for just a moment, I’ll try to keep it brief.”

Manius looked over at Lucius expectantly, who stepped up beside him as if on cue. The young man looked nervous, as if his courage might fail him at any moment. “I...Uh..”

Manius frowned, elbowing Lucius in the ribs. “Go on then, she doesn’t want some yokel standing there stammering and gawking at her…”

Lucius looked taken aback, shaking his head profusely. “Deepest apologies, my lady, for bothering you...but I wanted to give you this…” Lucius held out a small, metal disc in outstretched hand, it’s surface embossed with an image of the Roman eagle and the word “VALOUR” underneath it.

Manius waited a moment, as if hoping the boy would explain its significance of his own accord, and finally deciding that he wouldn't be, added, “It’s an award given to Legionaries who display bravery and courage in the face of an overwhelming enemy. It’s a coveted and distinguished award, not lightly given. But in this case, well earned.”

Lucius readily nodded. “Aye...I know it’s probably not proper, seeing as I’m just a pleb and all…”

Manius elbowed the younger man again, Lucius straightening as color bloomed across his cheeks. “Apologies, my lady...I mean, I wanted you to have this.”

Manius nodded. “Very well then, you’ve said your piece, now go and ask Mikkos to have the kitchen staff prepare you a meal, we’ll be heading out shortly.”

Lucius nodded, bowing his head first towards Manius and then Gaia with a “Yes, sir...my lady.” before moving off.

Manius smirked, crossing his arms across his chest as he watched Lucius move away with due haste. “He’s a good kid...perhaps a bit smitten. Some get like that, after surviving a hard fought battle. Wine tastes a bit sweeter, a woman’s beauty is all the more captivating…” Manius cleared his throat, as if suddenly realizing what he was implying. “...it will pass.”

Manius turned towards her, then. “On a more important note, my lady, I wanted to seek your approval to take the prisoners back with me to Rome, tonight. As much as I could use the rest, keeping them here overnight is not a safe option. These men are clearly more than common bandits...the quality of their gear, the fine cut of their clothes, there is something deeper there. I’m not sure what, exactly, but I intend to find out. If all goes well I should be able to return within a few days...a week maximum.”

Manius started to turn away, but hesitated a moment. “Oh...and, I think it proper to maintain the element of surprise, to not publicly disclose the manner of the General’s injury or how well you fared against your attackers just yet. I would assume that whoever hired them is still lurking in the shadows with intent to do you harm. I will send word to Tiberius Attius, however, if only to inform him that your husband is in need of reliable, capable allies.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Decius Maximus pressed his shoulders back into the solid wood panel of the chair in which he was currently seated, right hand gripping the paneling on the arm, the fingers of his left woven through a fistfull of dark hair at the back of the head that rhythmically bobbed up and down over his lap.

Decius groaned lustfully. “By the Gods, girl...that tongue…”

The slave girl hummed affirmatively as the speed of her movements increased as if she sensed his release was near.

“Oh, you little nymph...keep sucking...ahhh...you’ve almost earned your reward…” Decius’ eyes squeezed shut, teeth gnawing at his lower lip as his head was thrown back to thump against the chair behind him. His buttocks raised off the seat slightly as if the suction generated by her mouth was powerful enough to pull his weight up towards her.

“Dominus?”

The slave girl jerked away forcefully, overpowering the pressure of the hand tangled in her hair, her head spinning around to take in the speaker as Decius’ rigid cock was suddenly ripped from her throat to fall free of her lips and land with a wet slap against the inside of his thigh. Decius’ head shot up, eyes aflame as he considered the figure who had made its way into his office undetected.

“My cock was between her teeth, idiot! Assess the situation more carefully before you so clumsily announce your presence.” Decius pinched the bridge of his nose at the corners of his eyes between thumb and forefinger, sighing, mumbling under his breath. “You’d think a purveyor of flesh could manage to find more reliable help…” He shook his head, reaching a hand out to gently stroke the slave girl’s cheek reassuringly. “Come now, little dove, pay this brute no mind. Finish your task dutifully and I will overlook the fact that you nearly made me a eunuch…”

The girl sniffled, shifting back around to face Decius with a mumbled, “Yes, Dominus…” before once more resuming the task of orally pleasuring her Master.

Decius settled back against his chair again, the corners of his mouth curling up despite the ire that still remained in his features, his head tilting back as a groan of ecstasy issued from low in his throat. “Oomph...you really are a natural. A lucky find, you’ll make a fine chamber slave one day…”

The third party cleared their throat, once more trying to gain Decius’ attention. “...Dominus.”

Decius lifted his head, looking over to consider the speaker as if he had already forgotten that the man was there, a look of exasperation worn plainly across his visage. “Right...Porthos. Do you bring word of something of some import, or did you simply barge in here to get an eyeful of my cock?”

Porthos, shook his head, his hands grasped before him, wringing nervously. “The former, Dominus...it’s regarding the girl.”

Decius grunted, his eyes rolling back a moment, before he waved a hand at Porthos dismissively. “You can have your turn once she’s finished here…”

“Not that girl, Dominus...the Africana girl.”

Decius pursed his lips, nodding as a look of recognition passed over his visage. “Right...the snatch job, the one I contracted with the twins to see done. You have word from them, then?”

“No, Dominus...that is the concern. They were not in the agreed upon meeting place and failed to send word. It’s not like them to fail to provide timely communication, it would seem their efforts have been foiled.”

Decius sighed, a hand once more resting against the back of the slave girl’s head, fingers entangling in her hair. “Fucking Greeks...likely those two dandies are off in the woods someplace, too busy buggering each other to take heed of their obligations. Very well...if they attempted to carry out the contract and were unsuccessful, well, we no longer have the element of surprise on our side.”

Porthos nodded. “And her husband is not merely a Senator...he was a soldier, a Legate, surely he will...”

Decius frowned, waving off Porthos’ note of caution dismissively. “I know all about this Marcus Valerius...wait...Marcus Valerius, was he not once married to that noble witch that Septimius just recently wed?”

Porthos nodded affirmatively. “I believe that is correct, Dominus.”

“And does Septimius still make use of our services?”

Porthos nodded again. “He visits from time to time to lease Atrextus, I believe, the Gaul…”

Decius cut him off. “Right...the one hung like a bull.” Decius smiled wickedly. “No doubt he simply finds him a stimulating conversationalist. Very good, Porthos, I think we’ve found our leverage. Send word to Septimius...tell him I have a business proposition for him. If he resists arranging the meeting, subtly imply that rumor might slip of his...less than masculine proclivities…”

“Right away, Dominus...and what of the Nubians, should we not warn them that delivery of their package has been delayed?”

Decius smirked. “We must be cautious, there...send word to Tambal’s man in the city, invite him here. Once he arrives, offer him free use of whichever girl he likes. Once he’s drunk on wine and cunt, bring him to my office, I’ll make him aware of the setback.”

Porthos nodded affirmatively. “Very well, Dominus...is there anything else?”

“Yes...send for Xenia, that bitch I acquired in Athens last year with the plush backside. I suddenly find myself overcome with the urge to ram my cock up a Greek ass for some reason…”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Sleep eluded her. She was tired; she could feel it in her bones, an ache that she’d never truly experienced. Every time that she thought her eyelids would close, there would be a touch from Marcus, and she was shocked back into full wakefulness. No resentment; relief at every time, every passing touch. Returning them was easy; a gentle squeeze back, a kiss to his forehead, a mopping of his brow. And her hand always in his, her head tilted back against the side of the carpentum, her mind circling and ending nowhere.


____

When the carpentum stopped, she jerked to full wakefulness. Somehow, her body had found a fugue state, caught between sleeping and staying awake, the delirium of a first time soldier. She looked down to Marcus; he was still sleeping, peacefully, it seemed. Good - perhaps that meant that the worst of it had passed. She would check and redress the wound once they were truly settled. Though they’d moved with as much haste as possible, there were still small stops - and she took advantage of them, combing through empty fields for more of the herba militaris. Luck held with her; there had been an almost unnatural abundance in the fields between here and the villa, and she gathered as much as she could each time, for dressing of the wounds of the servants, for keeping alongside her as they traveled. She wasn’t sure what healing would be available at the villa, and at this rate, she would feel safer if she treated his wounds herself. What extra she had left over, she would dry to gather the seeds. It would make sense to keep some within the grounds.

The rapping at the door, and she pried her fingers from Marcus’s hand, reassuring the unconscious man with a kiss to his forehead as she stood, bleary eyed. Mikkos’s color was pale, but the elder man seemed to be holding up rather well. She managed a shaky smile, a fumbling attempt at thankfulness at his ability to work without much guidance. The man was a treasure; she could see that much. Surely there had to be a way to reward him, once the dust had settled. She would not let his actions go unrecognized.

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness,” she managed, in a voice that was cracked from disuse from the past hours. “Philomena has been through enough; I can manage well enough on my own.” The words were firm, even if her stature wasn’t convincing in the slightest. She seemed ready to fall over, only her will keeping her up. The light in her dark eyes was not to be argued with. It would seem a gracious gesture, but in truth, Gaia didn’t want anyone around her - no one that she did not know well. Though the girl could scarcely be blamed for the terror that had befallen them, the idea of being vulnerable around a stranger did not sit well with her. “Please ensure that everyone that has been with us are well fed, their wounds tended, and for them to rest. Save for the men to help me with the litter, I will have no further need of any assistance tonight.”

It may be folly, dismissing everyone, and there was a nagging voice in the back of her head that told her that she was overstepping, acting rashly, but her gut overpowered it. She wanted no one else around them; wanted to be rid of as much of this day as she could manage. She additionally needed the time to inspect the grounds on her own, to find whatever hidden nooks and crannies with her own eyes and senses. If this was to be her home for however long, she would need to know everything about it, including things that servants might feel inclined to hide. Some fumbling would be expected, then - but she could manage.

“As for you,” her attention would be turned back to him, her gaze returning from the nothing she had looked so fixedly at a moment ago, “What I’ve asked of the other servants applies to you as well,” and she hoped that her smile would somewhat soften her words. “You’ve been wounded; you need to eat and rest as much as the others. I will manage, once we have the Dominus moved into the home.” It felt strange to use his title, but it would have felt stranger still to use his name.

In the small span of time it took for Mikkos to send word to retrieve a litter, she was somewhat startled to be approached by Manius and Lucius. She had stepped out of the carpentum, her sandals clumsily laced on. Putting them on had been uncomfortable, enough to cause tears of pain to spring to her eyes, but it would be better than risking more injury by continuing to move without them.

As the two soldiers approached, she drew herself up to her full height - shorter than Marcus, but with a regality in the pulled back line of her shoulders that suggested not just nobility, but royalty. Manius’s words caused the tired severity of her face to drop into a relieved smile, a secret between unusual comrades.

“What’s this? Oh..” The latter was breathed out, in shock. Even without the explanation, the embossed “VALOUR” spoke volumes. She was no soldier, but had heard enough from Lucius to know what it meant. Tears she thought she had stoppered up began again, and she clumsily wiped at them with the back of her hand, against the merry accompaniment of the jingle of her bracelets. “I,” she hiccuped around tears, then, swallowing, wiping at her face again, she managed another weak smile. Though it was small, faltering, there was a brightness that would have envied the sun, the winning smile of her brother, beautiful through her tears. “Dear man - I can’t take this. I can’t,” her voice shook, heavy with emotion. “I’m no soldier; I have not earned this truthfully, nor can I take it from someone who has earned it through his own power. Though I thank you, beyond the weak words I can serve to you, for even thinking that I could be in the most remote way deserving of this. I should be giving you something for the bravery that the two of you have shown.”

She clasped the young man’s hands in hers, and closed them over the medal. “Keep it; it is yours.” Her touch was light, but firm, insistent without being rude. And as she drew her hands away, she pulled off a solid gold bracelet. It was beaten thin, wide to cover nearly her entire wrist, with a raised ridge in the center of it. It was deceptively light, and without a second thought, she handed it to him. “This is a piece from my family’s ancestral lands in Africa; please, keep it. I would be insulted if you were to refuse.” A firm look suggested that the matter was not up for debate. Not that Lucius would have time to argue with her; he was dismissed readily enough by Manius, and seemed all too eager to leave to save himself more embarrassment.

Manius would speak again - and was nearly interrupted by her sudden laughter. A true nervous reaction, there was something that was just so absurd to her in thinking that the young man could be smitten by her, of all people, that she hadn’t been able to stop herself. But as quickly as it had come, it had passed.

“You have my approval - and I believe that it would be for the best. Though I am sorry that you are not able to rest as well as you should. Take whatever supplies that you need so that you may travel to Rome peaceably. If the Gods continue to smile upon me, Marcus will be well and will see to it that justice is served upon them.”

She would turn to face Manius fully as she finished her statement, her attention solely on him. Her eyes were cool, but determined. “Do not discuss with anyone that you saw me with a bow. It was unseemly, and born out of desperation. It would make Marcus look terrible if anyone were to know what I did - and it would be a lie on top of that. Merely desperation,” she repeated, more to convince him than herself. She would not deny the blessing that she had been given, but she needed to preserve the lie. “I would hope that it is something that would not ever have to be repeated - but I do agree with you that it should not be well known how we’ve fared from this attack. Lie if you have to; make up whatever story that you feel is plausible. But it need not be the entire truth, nor should it ever be, until this has been figured out. And if you trust this Tiberius, then yes, send word for him. Say that I am a difficult woman, a cold wife, anything that would bring him coming. I would rather be seen as a villain, as a horrible woman for sympathy to be with Marcus and for his integrity not to be questioned. I am, after all, from a strange family that will always be from elsewhere, despite our outward appearance.” The last was said with a hint of a knowing smile, of an implicit trust that she put in this man to do the right thing, to say the right words, even if it meant that she would look poorly because of it. Being a shrew of a wife was something she could deal with. More assaults on her person and on Marcus’s - that she could not bear.

“And for you, Manius,” she took off the bracelet’s twin from her left arm. Their removal would make her arms look small, almost bare, were it not for the several other gold bangles that she still wore. “The same would go for you - that I would be gravely insulted if you refused a token of my appreciation. It is no medal, but it is the best that I can do.” The shaky attempt at a laugh then, as she wiped the remnants of tears from her face. She had to keep it together. “Travel safely, and be well for your journey.”

No sooner had she finished speaking that the men approached the carpentum, litter between them. She gave Manius a nod, then was walking back to the carpentum to oversee Marcus being loaded onto it.



_______



Bright, white light - the full body of the moon was high above her. It was not perfectly full, that she knew, but she had a promise to keep.

My most precious thing for my life.

Not what was “most precious” by the measures of men; that was still intact. No, what was most precious to her, what brought her the most joy. The root of what little beauty she thought she had.

Beside her sat a novacila, scissors, pumice stone, a small vial of oil. A mirror was to her left, catching the reflection of the moon behind her. As she took in a deep breath of the cooler night air, the scent of the sea came to her, eased tension from her shoulders. She would not travel far from the cubicula that her and Marcus would now share. She had settled him in the bed, with some help from the larger male servants whose names escaped her. Poor show for a new Domina, she knew, but she also thought that it would be forgiven in time. The bandage around his arm was removed, and she checked the wound for any foulness. It was raw, and not all of the herba militaris had been wiped clean from it as she washed it again, but it was of a small concern to her. There was no darkening of the flesh, no additional redness, no foul smell. She had made a paste of the herb, applied it to his wound and re-wrapped it, all with a lightness. All she had seen were good signs, all more reason for her to go through with what she was about to do.

The cubicula that the two of them would share was on the Western side of the property; the safest area of the home. Had she an eye for military things, it would have made sense to her for that reason. To her, it meant a wonderful view of the sun dipping into the sea, its furious light extinguished by the infinite expanse of the wine dark sea. She’d heard tales of the ocean, could remember that in the past she had been told about it - vacations to visit someone or the other, back before her memory was fully formed. It would seem that recent years kept her family tethered to their own villa, for reasons that she never truly questioned. And seeing it like this, with the eyes of an adult, she still felt a deep sense of wonder, of smallness. It was a view that took her breath away, and one she knew she would never grow tired of.

It was in the face of this splendor that she chose to make her sacrifice. A small brazier had been brought out to her; it’s presence not questioned, as the night air from the ocean could quickly chill the air. The wind off of the sea was cold; birthed gooseflesh on her arms, but it was hardly noticeable as she picked up the scissors in her right hand, and grasped the long trail of her braid with her left hand. The flames danced, pushed this way and that by the wind, but never losing its luster, never losing the sweet smoke from the resin and herbs she’d thrown on it earlier - strawflower, basil, rosemary - aromatic things that clung to the palms of her hand. She suspected that it would cling to her hair as well, for she had sat for hours, undoing the braids of her wedding. The roses, wilted, battered, clinging to the blushing pink of their origin, had been consigned to the brazier first.

Thank you, great Goddess of the Hunt for aiming my arrows true. Thank you, great Juno, for gifting me with a brother who taught me things that women should not know, but without such knowledge, would have meant our deaths. Shining Apollo, please continue to watch my husband and encourage his healing back to full health. To Venus, for showing me what I did not know, and would long to know more of. I give you all the little that my mortal body possesses, but what I value the most. I shall keep this covenant between us, the removal of my beauty, until all is well within this world, until my husband is whole and this threat has been removed from us. Though I am hesitant to ask for me, fear that I should not, I ask for your continued protection. You have watched me carefully, lovingly, so far - please do not remove your favor from me.

It was harder to cut through the braid than she initially thought. It took several snapping, jerky gestures to work the sharpened bronze through the thick braid. And when it gave, it was with a suddenness that nearly knocked her off balance. But there it was, in her left hand, a heavy coil that her head felt suddenly lighter for without it. She looked at it, ran her fingers over it. She hadn’t had scissors laid to her hair in her entire memory. Despite the coarse and thick curls that her ancestry had bestowed upon her and her family, it had been through the skill of Natta that their hair had been tamed into something more befitting a Roman society, the braids that would sit peacefully beneath pullas. Her hair had been what she had always been most proud of; the thing that had always garnered favorable comments from everyone - from her mother to Natta, even to venomous Cassia, who would express envy, true envy, at the speed of which it grew. Between sessions with Natta, Gaia had taken great pride in brushing her hair, in applying sweet scented oils, in braiding it down for the night, in handling it. So much else about her was all wrong; at least she had this one thing.

And now she watched as it curled in on itself in the midst of the flames. Her eyes burned from unshed tears. What would she have now? And what would her husband say?

It’s of no matter.

My beauty is nothing for his life.

Scissors were replaced by the novacila, a more careful steadying of the mirror. The novacila was picked up, and with an unsteady hand, she ran it over her head. Large, airy clumps of curls fell again and again. She would stop when her arms grew tired, gather up the tufts of hair, and give them to the brazier. The moon would hang low in the night sky by the time she was done, her face wet from tears she allowed herself to shed, though it was with a mixed heart that they came. Letting go of all fears from the attack, sorrow for what she was doing, relief that she was still alive; all of these things and none at once. Rubbing the last bit of stubble away with a pumice stone, she ran a shaking hand over her now completely bald head. Anywhere that there might have been additional tufts, un-evenness, she went back with the novacila, followed with the pumice, until her head was as clean and as smooth as the rest of her. With a graceful formality, she set the pumice down and picked up the vial, pouring out the thick golden contents into her hand. Leaning her head down, she raised her palms up to the sky, somewhat awkwardly as the oil trailed down her arms.

I thank you, and I ask for your continued protection.

With languid motions, she ran her hands over her head, over and over, massaging the oil into the bareness of her scalp. There was the lingering sorrow there, but it was being overcome at the realization of how her world had changed. Not so much as being a bride; that was a distant dream, a thing that happened to another Gaia, many ages ago. Now, she felt a tightness in her chest, a firmness set into her mouth.

I will protect him to my dying breath.

Through him, she would have her own family, another offering to the Gods and Goddesses that had been so kind so far. But for it to happen, she would need to keep him alive. And if the Gods and Goddesses had twisted fate so that her strangeness had been of service to him, then she would keep it that way.

I can never be a normal wife, and I ask for your forgiveness. But I will not let the gifts I have been given go to waste here. Help me maintain the facade, the ability to make him proud, but to keep myself true.

She would stay with the brazier until the flames flickered into glowing embers. Until the embers burned into plush gray ash, until the metal was cool to the touch. And as the first rays of the dawn started behind her, she picked up the brazier and threw its contents to the winds, watching as the gust whipped them out to the sea. Tired as she was, she managed a smile.

Thank you.







Her ablutions seen to, she would join Marcus in their marriage bed, choosing to sit beside him, her back to the wall, him beside her. As much as her aching body whined for sleep, she kept awake, unwilling to let herself rest until he opened his eyes, until she was confident that he was with her. She hoped, dimly, that her new appearance would not offend him - for she was still like a Roman matron in her dress; a lighter, linen stolla that she wore now, Egyptian in its sheerness, one she’d brought with her. Without her hair, the structure of the bones of her face, her skull, could be see cleanly, and there was the Numidian heritage there, to make her head seem almost overlarge on the long and slender lines of her neck, the way her ears seemed to come to a small point at the top of them, how small and close they sat to her face. Her brows and eyes seemed all the darker, sharper, almost. To the bystander, the removal of her hair would be like coming from inside a darkened building into the sunlight - her natural beauty a reflection of the unnatural perfection of her mother’s face, exotic and strange by Roman standards, but no less captivating for its oddness.

The dark triangle of her pubic hair, the dark buds of her nipples, were merely hinted at beneath the cream color of the old fabric. Her feet she’d carelessly wrapped herself, enough to keep the worse of the pain at bay and to keep the wounds covered. Her left arm, now free of the rows of bracelets and decoration, was also hastily wrapped, the wound showing pale pink against the wrappings. The bruises and small scrapes she did nothing else for, hoping that her quick bath before she changed would be enough. It hadn’t been much of a bath - no true soaking, at least. She’d gotten herself a bowl and vase of water, and had sponged herself clean, working within sight of the bed so if Marcus so much as coughed, she could be at his side.

Now, somewhat clean, she reached down to lace her fingers through his, and waited, looking out towards the ocean.

 

[Talon]

Marcus stirred, drawing air into his lungs deeply, sharply, as his eyes slowly crept open. The ceiling, bathed in the warm light of the dawn, filled his vision. He blinked away the fog of slumber a few times forcefully as he lay there, his brain slowly becoming accustomed to reality once more.

I must actually have awakened this time. I can feel the wound throbbing, someone’s hand in mine...

Marcus’ head lifted as it turned over to his right side, towards the figure that sat beside him. It almost hovered over him, so close was it positioned, but it’s posture and presence didn’t project a menacing vibe, more like comforting or protective. His vision was still somewhat blurry, both from sleep and the lingering effects of whatever sickness ailed him, and so he was forced to squint in order to try and sharpen his focus to make out detail.

A white night dress, dark complexion…

“Gaia…?” His voice sounded awful as it hit his own ears. Hoarse. Ragged. Gravely, like a stone drug harshly across sand.

The figure nodded affirmatively, he could make out the whiteness of her teeth as she flashed what must have been a smile, but the details of her face were still unclear. As she nodded, he was able to make out one particular detail that caught his eye. The skin atop her head gleamed in the sunlight as it moved…

His head rocked back, a look of confusion spreading across his features, his brow knitting as he forcefully squeezed his eyes shut with a shake of his head, eyes rapidly blinking before opening and drawing to a squint, his head lifting toward her as he sought to make out details. Long, slender neck...well defined but softened cheekbones and jawline...it was clearly her, his wife, sans the elaborate braids that she had previously worn atop her head. An unexpected change of appearance, no doubt surprising, but not entirely unwelcome. Although his initial reaction was of shock, he found that the more he took it in, the more he felt the look suited her, made her look more regal, highlighted and heightened the natural beauty in the lines of her facial features. No...not shocking at all, he thought...stunning.

The look of confusion on his face melted away, the right side of his lips curling into his trademark half smile, his hand squeezing hers affectionately. “Gaia…” this time her name was spoken as a statement of fact, as if in greeting.

How long have we been here? How long have I been out? Did she really sit here, watching over me like a wolf mother over her pup, forgoing rest in order to stand a vigilant watch?

Marcus felt his heart swell, moisture forming at the corner of his eyes. They were a far cry from that night in the courtyard, where his burning desire had clashed with the protective wall of ice that had formed around her feelings. Marcus leaned over, not releasing his grip on her hand, pushing down against the bed with his elbow as he clumsily rose to sit beside her, Gaia helping him steady himself as he did. He winced as he tested his weight against his extended left arm, palm down against the bed for balance. The shock of pain was but slight annoyance, the expression flowing away, replaced once more with a warm smile and a softening of his brow.

He cleared his throat then, his head turning away so as not to appear rude, as he wanted his voice to be clear and steady the next time he spoke. He turned back to her, gaze sliding over the smoothness of her scalp, considering it once more with the added vantage of closer proximity. There was no injury apparent, at least, so she must have done this of her own free will. That thought was all that concerned him in the moment. There was a story to tell there, one that he would be eager to hear, but now was not the time. He locked eyes with her, his face drawing nearer to hers. “Gaia, my love…” He drew closer still, until his forehead met hers, gently, the tip of his nose brushing against hers. “...my beautiful wife...thank you.” He wasn’t aware of all that he should be thankful to her for, truly, but he knew in his heart she’d had a hand in him pulling through.

He had spoken that heavy word, love, without gauging it, without examining the depth of what it meant, what the ramifications of such an admission were. It felt right in the moment, though, to describe what he felt in his heart. This was more than mere lust, now...there was something deeper, more robust, more than the flash flame of desire that could be quenched with a simple roll between the sheets. She was a part of him, a part of his very being. She would be the mother to his children, part of her would mix with part of him to form the vessel for their legacy to continue forth in the world. She was his, and he was hers, from this day forth.

Marcus’ head tilted as his lips met hers in a sudden, urgent kiss, harkening back to their ill fated roll on the sheets in the carpentum. Tongues readily mixed, twirling around each other softly, as he deepened it, holding it for a few moments to savor that intimate connection before he pulled back, eyes burning with an intense, reawakened desire as the taste of her lips stoked the flame that was relighting in his gut.

There will be nothing to stop us now...not the Gods, not man, not beast...the very ground could open beneath us and swallow us whole, we will be joined together as we fall...

His gaze slid down her form, then, to the night dress she wore. The soft, pink light of the dawn filtered through the room and cut through the nearly sheer fabric of her stola to illuminate the outline of what lay beneath, leaving little to the imagination. His eyes locked onto the readily visible dark spots of her nipples. His memory was jogged then, back to the carpentum, the sight of her heavy breasts as she pulled down the top of her stola to expose them...

Marcus released his grip on her hand, pulling his own free, his hand reaching around behind her to seize a handful of her dress, pulling it upwards with insistent tugs as their lips met once more in a passionate kiss. She had helpfully lifted her lower half up, then, as Marcus made quick work of pulling the dress up and over her head, breaking the kiss to allow for the fabric to clear her face. Once it had, he pounced, the injury and fatigue all but forgotten, overwritten, in the face of the overwhelming urge to procreate that had come rushing back into him so suddenly.

He pushed her back against the bed, moving between her thighs, soliciting her help in pulling his own tunic over his head with a series of wordless grunts and gestures as he leaned forward over her. As the material of the tunic cleared his midsection his member was bared, already roused to its hardened state by the mere sight of her body, throbbing in time with his pulse as it fattened with lust. It looked thick, enough to leave a gap between grasping fingers, and had a gentle upward and to the left curvature towards the end as it arched out from a dark patch of dense, soft hair at the intersection between his thighs. The smooth flesh of the shaft was of a darker tone than the paleness of his surrounding flesh, a light, warm reddish-brown, with a fat vein running down the middle from the base to just below the head, a broad, bulbous knob at the tip that peeked out from its natural hood of foreskin, the slit at the summit gleaming wetly in testament to his desire. Dangling below, hanging loosely between his thighs, was the fist sized fleshy sack that held his testicles, each the size and shape of a large egg.

Marcus carelessly tossed the tunic aside, leaning down over her, positioning his head above her breasts as he rained a flurry of passionate kisses along the wealth of flesh there, lips finally enclosing on the nub of her left nipple, sucking it deeper into his mouth as his lips worked against the tiny bumps around her aureola, the tip of his tongue lashing against the sensitive nub as he suckled at it. His right hand moved between them, knuckles and the back of his hand brushing against the softness of her stomach, down across and through the coarse hair above her sex. His hand turned over, thumb pressing into the flesh around the crease where her pubis met thigh, his middle finger against the plump lips of her sex, brushing up them until it met the tiny nub of her clit. He pressed the tip of his finger there, starting first with a gentle up and down stroke, building to a steady, circular motion as the pressure his fingertip exerted against her clit increased. All the while his mouth never ceased it’s affectionate attentions, hungrily suckling at her teat as if he sought sustenance, occasionally letting the captured nipple slip free from the grasp of his lips, only to kiss his way across the swell of her breast to it’s twin before suckling there for a few heartbeats.

Feeling the wetness of his fingers, apparently deciding she was primed for what would come next, Marcus’ head lifted from her breast, moving up towards hers. He kissed her then, just a quick, but deep, embrace of their lips before he pulled back, their eyes meeting. “I want to taste you…” His voice was hoarse, still, but now with the raspy quality of a man deep in the throes of lust.

He moved then, not waiting for a reply, withdrawing down the bed, wincing as his movement tweaked the injury at his arm, seemingly unconcerned with potentially causing more injury in the moment. He lay there, on his stomach, as he positioned his shoulders underneath her thighs, pressing against the back of them, elevating them as he moved forward, his head brought to lay before her sex, his face but inches away, as he paused a moment, drinking in the details of her most intimate area. She could feel him drawing breath deeply, could hear him almost panting, as the sight inspired him to heights of lust previously unknown. He finally moved, pressing his face in until his nose almost touched the nub of her clit, and he drew in a deep, appraising breath. Her natural musk was strong, earthy, intoxicating as it filled his head, met with a deep grunt of approval from low in his throat. The lids of his eyes grew heavy, his movements slowed as if he were inebriated under the influence of powerful instincts her scent had triggered in him.

His lips were upon her then, kissing first the plump, ripe outer lips that sheened wetly, his tongue against them, tasting her, his lips vibrating against her sensitive flesh as he wordlessly hummed his approval. Soft kisses turned deeper, sucking what flesh he could between his lips for just a moment before moving along, lower, until his eyes looked into her from over the hairy mound of her pubis. His tongue probed against the slit at the bottom, where perineum met vulva, pressing softly, the tip sliding between them, into her, as the tip of his nose did the same, the exhalation of his deep breaths hot against her flesh, the inhalation even deeper as he continually drank in her scent. Her hands shot down to press the flat of her palms against his forehead, then, and though he couldn’t be sure if it was a genuine attempt to push him away, he would have none of it. His face never broke contact with her flesh, his tongue still sliding against the slit, as his hands reached up around her thighs, seizing her wrists, a slight wince of pain from him as he jerked her arms outward, the musculature of his shoulders and arms flexing as he pressed her hands into the bed to either side of her, his hands shifting around to reverse their grip.

He held her there, arms restrained, as his shoulders met the underside of her thighs with enough force to lift her substantial rump off the sheets, his face pressed against her, tongue sliding up her slit, nose brushing against her until his mouth was positioned over the top. He locked eyes with hers, a predatory glint in his gaze, face once more hovering inches above her intimate flesh, the area around his mouth gleaming wetly with her arousal. He held there a moment in silence, watching her...and then he was upon her, lips pressing around her clit, his tongue lashing against it roughly, continually, as he sucked at her flesh, the grip of his hands around her wrists tightening as he held them in place.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

At the first flutter of his eyelids, she leaned over, holding her breath.

Please, please, please…

He stirred. His eyes were barely opening, a narrow slit. Though her heart jumped into her throat, she forced herself into stillness, into watchfulness. She scarcely dared to breathe, only allowing herself to when she felt her chest began to burn.

He spoke, and the world returned to her. “Yes, yes…!” Hiccuping words as she leaned over, uncaring about his wound, and wrapped her arms around him. Such a show of affection would have been frowned upon, and the gesture at its heart felt strange to her, it was such the right thing to do that she didn’t have time to question it further. To feel him warm, breathing, to hear his voice again: she’d never imagined that it had been so sweet.

Thank you, Shining Apollo. Oh, Apollo, thank you so much.

Her face was damp against the crook of his neck where she pressed it, her tears flowing hotly and freely. She would hardly loosen her grip as he pulled away to get a better eyeful of her, almost as if she couldn’t allow herself. But loosen her grasp she did, but only enough for him to sit back to look at her. A flash of heat across her cheeks as he focused on her head, but it was quickly pushed aside. Her sacrifice had not been in vain, and the fact that he was speaking, moving, was such a testament to the favor of those shining beings that she felt overwhelmed, buoyant as she were on the highest mountain.

“How are you feeling?” It would come as a response to the second call of her name, the reassurance there that he was aware of where he was, of who she was. That the worst of the fever had passed. She pressed her right hand gently against his forehead, looked into his eyes. His pupils were steady, no longer dilated, and his skin no longer felt clammy. There was little need for her to ask, for he was moving under his own power, accepting her help as she steadied him. His sitting up would be fine; expected, desired, even, after such long hours laying down. “There will be pain in the arm while the wound heals, but it looks as if the poison has cleared your system.” Her voice wavered; she was still choking back tears, trying to focus on him, really and truly, to ensure that she wasn’t dreaming still. To fully grasp the wonderful thing that was happening, to stay in the moment and let all else fall away.

“Do not thank me; thank the Gods,” warmth against his lips, her forehead pressed against his. Her returning touch was soft, a returning press of her forehead, closing the gap, a caress without her arms. Her hand had left his long ago, her arms wrapped again, loosely around his neck. She’d shifted so that they would be face to face, her front to his, fat beads of her tears collected in her eyelashes as she closed them, enjoying the touch of him. “They watched over us and brought us here, they accepted my offering. As soon as you’re well, you must give proper thanks, for we owe them much.”

A hitch in her breathing, she pulled back, her eyes confused. Had she misheard him? The ‘beautiful’ bit could be waved away, yes, but the ‘love’…? She almost cocked her head to one side, as inquisitive as a puppy trying to learn a new command - but before she had more time to think on it, to turn it in her mind, his mouth was hot on hers. Her lips parted readily, her tongue hesitant, but what she did not have in skill, she made up for in eagerness, in desire. Her mind was wiped clean, any stray thoughts vanishing, mist in the early morning. He was here, he was whole, and he was kissing her, the heat in her body arching from her stomach to pool between her legs, even the fine hairs on her arms felt every change in the wind, in the air between them. Had she more experience, she would have known that now was no more time for words, and even as she tried to fumble for them, she felt that part of her tongue still. What could she say that her body could not?

And so she helped him undress her, moving through a haze, her body moving of its own accord, her mind adrift. All she knew were his lips, pressing to hers as the veil of her linen stolla was tossed aside, rendering her nude in one fluid movement. There was no timidity there, a slight shiver from the change in temperature, but it wouldn’t matter for long. Her body melted beneath his, her back landing easily into the thick cushion of the bed, her eyes locked shut, her mouth still against his, when movement would jostle them apart, her mouth found wherever she could - the side of his neck, his jaw, tasting the bitterness of the sweat there, the texture of his skin, the rough stubble as his facial hair had begun to grow back. All was ambrosial to her, her hands moving from his neck to card through his thick hair, down his neck again, to grasp at the back of it, to keep his mouth on hers, to keep kissing her until she was drunk -

It was with a soft whine that her lips parted from his; she would have kissed him until she nearly died, had she the chance, but he needed her, his tunic was coming overhead, still a deep blue against the blood and dirt and grime, and -

She stopped, nearly gasping, as his sex came into view.

It was beautiful, it was frightening, the sight of it made her mouth water and her cunt throb so much that it was nearly painful. She seemed in a trace as she stared at it, laying shock still beneath him, her fingers curled into the coverings of the bed, unsure of what to do next. Should she reach out and touch him, as she longed to? Would he know what to do? What was she supposed to do with it? Surely it couldn’t fit inside of her; he was so thick, so long - she hadn’t even so much as had a finger inside of her, never bothered to pleasure herself before.

“Wait, I - Ah!” The words died on her tongue as soon as they came, his tongue encircling her nipple enough to make her vision white out, to flicker with colorful spots around the edges. Like being burned, the sensation shot through her entire body, and when she made a second sound, it was a mournful cry, nearly shuddering, close to sobbing. She arched her chest into his questing mouth, her right hand going to his head again, grasping onto a thick handful as his tongue flicked back and forth, teasing her already hard nipples into further peaks, her body set to writhing beneath him. When she thought that his lips alone were enough to drive her mad, the press of his fingers between her legs caused her to jerk, nearly shaking him loose. She was so wet, her labia so swollen with desire, that his hand would be sticky from the slightest brush, the slightest parting of those lips enough to reveal a deep rose opening that shone with her fluid, so wet that he would have a difficult time simply finding purchase. His slightest touch against her clit caused her legs to flex, involuntarily close, heavy breathing from her as she forced them back open, her hand tightening painfully in his hair, the left caressing his back, the bite of her nails not far behind.

She had to be losing her mind.

There were far too many sensations for her to take in, her body was hers and it wasn’t, it was floating, drifting, being pushed towards something closer and closer, the edge of a cliff that she wasn’t sure what was going to greet her once she inevitably fell. There was fear in the grip of her hand, uncertainty - a begging in her soft moans and cries, those that slipped free as even as she tried to muffle them by biting into the bedding, her brows knit, tears still trapped beneath the long fringe of her eyelids.

When he lifted his head to kiss her, had he stopped for a moment, he would see that her face was deeply flushed, sweat collecting on her brow, her dark eyes wide and open and shining with unshed tears, scared but longing, unsure but trusting. The comfort she sought was given to her in that kiss, one she deepened, pouring her feelings as clumsily as she could to him. Please be gentle. Please continue. I want this but I don’t know what it is. Please guide me through.

There were no outward prayers to Venus now; no asking for guidance - a blind trust in him, in what had to happen next. In the way her body felt, that pleasure pulling her in, tighter and tighter -

His voice rang upon deaf ears, only the tone registering to her. It was enough to make her start, to want to tell him to stop moving, to take it easy on his arm, for her eyes to fall to the bandage she’d wrapped there herself.

His name left her mouth in a shrill shriek, her body quivering as his mouth found her labia.

He can’t, no, he can’t kiss me here, it’s not appropriate, it’s -

She pushed at him, trying to get him away - it’s dirty, please, don’t, her thighs clamping shut, down, but to no avail. The strength he’d shown as he carried her away pinned her arms, and she bucked hard against him, trying to escape his tongue, squirming, panting -

“You can’t,” she sobbed out, even as he stopped, his eyes locked on hers, “It’s not proper; that’s where..” She couldn’t finish her sentence, too ashamed to say that yes, those were her private parts, her sex closed off to the world, only noted to relieve herself. And what would he think of her sex, as it was? She was no pale beauty; the plump lips of her labia, swollen as they were, were covered in dark curling hair, the lips themselves, her entire pubic area, darker than the rest of her, a natural thing she’d known for years. But inside of them, yes - past the darker, slightly purple lips of her labia minora, the deep pink of her entrance, sopping wet now, her fluids collecting, clear and thick there, nearly to pool at the bottom of her.

She twisted a bit in his arms, only stopping as his grasp tightened, causing a faint flicker of pain from her bandaged left arm. So caught up had she been in the movements of him that she’d forgotten all of her hurts, but even now, it meant little, compared to the hot rush of blood to her face. It wasn’t proper, how could he so eagerly put his face there, but by Venus, whatever he had done there, it felt so good -

And he wasn’t stopping. His tongue continued to lash at her clitoris, ignoring her ever growing feeble protests, her body betraying her - unconsciously, her hips had begun to buck into the movements of his mouth, pressing her sex firmly into his mouth, jostling for the best touch of his tongue to her clit. It would be shameless, the way she ground herself into him, her hands, fingers, no longer trying to free herself but to anchor herself against the onslaught of his tongue against her. That coil was tightening in her belly, she could feel it, feel it as her thighs began to tense, as it became harder and harder to breathe, her gasping now, his tongue, his lips -

“I…I…” How to explain what she was feeling, what she was standing on the edge of? Her body was tense, her thighs closing in around his head even as she pressed her hips into his mouth, riding him, her legs trembling around him, she was lost in that sea again, being pulled out further and further, cresting higher and higher -

And then it all broke over her, and she was screaming, her head turned to the side to only muffle the sound somewhat into the mattress, her body trembling with the force of her first orgasm. A rush of her sweetness spilled from her sex, nearly drenching his face with the force that it exited her, and she was shaking, shaking hard, still orgasming, tears still trailing down her face, her mind blank and a whirl, unable to process what had just happened to her, but knowing, deep down, from that tug in her stomach, from the way her sex fluttered, that she wanted, no, needed more. And she tried to speak again, her face caught between shame and desire, hoping that her words would be too quiet to hear -

“I need more..Inside…” The words were halting, embarrassing for her. But she was too far gone to care that much. She throbbed, his tongue inside of her had been just the slightest crack of a door that longed to be opened all the way. The fear was gone, replaced with a hunger in the pit of her core that she had to have, else she would lose her mind, that much she was certain of. “I need you inside me,” she repeated, a bit firmer, a bit more confidently, but with that air of pleading. “I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t feel you,” it was a confession fresh on tears, of confusion, of longing, the fear of giving him that much power over him. But she had to trust him. Gentleness she no longer needed, she just needed him.

As his grip had slackened with her orgasm, she slipped her arms from his grasp. There was a pause, unsure of what to do next. She’d asked, but what to do with her body? He was between her legs, his mouth on her sex, but he needed to be higher up. She had to feel that hard part of him, his phallus, so big and thick and frightening and beautiful and him, and she needed his weight on top of her. So she did what came natural - she reached down, gently pulling upwards on his shoulders, indicating that he needed to move higher up her body, lest they fall off the edge of the bed. She accommodated him easily, her shaking thighs falling open, almost lazily, to let him lay between her. She knew she must’ve looked a wanton, her legs parted so brazenly, her sex entirely open to the chill of the room, colder still without the presence of his face, but she was beyond caring. She hurt so much for him that she could feel the pulse of her heartbeat in her labia, in the way she clenched as he errantly brushed against her opening.

What could she say? What could she indicate further that she needed more? She looked up at him, ready. Willing.

 

[Talon]

Marcus met her gaze for a moment before his eyes flickered over her features, noting the slight flush in her tone, the damp trail from the tears that had fallen on her cheek. He kissed her there, tenderly, as her words hit his ears. He was still breathing heavily, more from the mood than exertion, and he wore the fruit of his labor proudly, the wetness of her arousal sheening across the lower half of his face, down his chin and even across the top of his chest. His ego was roaring, his pride flared, as he had been able to evoke her first orgasm so freely. A truly wondrous thing, he felt, as he had experienced some women who refused to let it wash over them, who fought savagely to keep it at bay despite his urgings otherwise. Not Gaia, though, for as bashful as she seemed to be on the surface, she had opened herself to it fully in the end. And the sounds she had made, the sweetness of her nectar...he already looked forward to her next.

Tilting his head to the side he lifted his arm to wipe his mouth across the top of his bicep, roughly cleaning himself, before turning back to her with a lustful grin, a soft kiss placed against her lips.

“I need you inside me, I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t feel you.” She said, a simple declaration of need that stoked the flame at his core once more to set it roiling.

Marcus considered her for a moment, then seemed to agree with a slight, affirmative nod. “Then feel you shall…”

Marcus’ right shoulder lifted up, his chest rising up off of hers as his body tilted, granting a vantage for them to observe what lay between them. The thick head of his prick, just as swollen as it had been when she had seen it last, rested there amongst the dark curls of her pubic hair, still shining wetly. His eyes held hers a moment before he looked down between them, motioning as if directing her gaze to follow, drawing it down towards his sex. He looked over towards her left side as she did, his right hand reaching out to grasp hers, pulling it in towards his middle, towards the swollen organ that dominated the space between their bodies. He pressed her hand to it, wrapping her fingers around the fleshy part of the shaft just below the tip, his fingers closing around the back of her hand as if to guide her. He held her hand still there, a moment, before his hips moved, slowly, pulling back until he was at such an angle that penetration could be achieved.

Penetration is not what followed though, not immediately, for he felt her fire needed to be stoked a bit, needed fuel to be added before it could roar once more. His hand, still wrapped around hers, directed her to manipulate his cock, to press that thick knob at the tip against the dark lips of her outer labia, to rub against them, to press into the sensitive flesh at the valley where her thigh met pelvis, before finally lifting it, and with a jerking motion, bringing it down to slap wetly against the nub of her clit. He held her hand steady then as his hips began to slowly piston, dragging a thumb's length worth of the shaft through her grip, rutting the head up against her clit with each forward motion before rubbing back against it as he withdrew. He held it there a moment, shoulder still lifted, suspended in the air to allow them both the vantage to see, to watch as they collectively held his shaft aloft to allow his hips to work towards their carnal purpose.

He suddenly released his grip on her hand and pulled his own back. It was just her effort holding his prick steady now, a dainty thumb wrapped over the top, pressed into the thick vein along its length, the tips of her fingers emerging from underneath, hugged along the side. His thrusting motion continued, foreskin held in place by her grip, the head of his cock emerging from its hood, revealing a deeper shade of red than the rest, almost purple. Marcus flexed the muscle that caused his organ to jump so that it bucked in her grip, forcefully pulling upwards against her thumb as if she held some wild beast in restraint that was rebelling against its confinement, eager to be set free, to run wild.

Marcus lifted his gaze back up to her face, watching her observe the lewd display put on by their combined efforts a moment before his face leaned in, forcefully pressing his lips to hers, lifting her own head in turn to allow him to deepen the kiss, their tongues once more swirling about hungrily. His right hand lifted cup the weighty orb of her left breast, finger and thumb tweaking her nipple gently, stroking the flesh around it, tracing the outline of her areola as if he were a man feeling his way in the dark. His hips kept pumping, continually sawing his fleshy organ through her grip, hand still kneading at her breast, his lips pressed to hers, the tension between them building, thickening the already humid air, filling it with the scent of their combined arousal as their fluids mingled together at the source.

Marcus pulled away then, angling his shoulder back once more, reaching down to wrap his hand around hers again before pulling her grip down the shaft, the hair around its base tickling her thumb as it pressed back against the root of his length. His hips shifted, retreating slightly, realigning, his hand steering hers, guiding the length of shaft to direct the knob at the tip towards the slit between her labia, still flushed and gleaming wetly with the signs of her arousal. He pushed forward then, splitting those lips ever so slightly, their hands working in concert to drag that swollen tip up and down her opening, parting it, gathering upon the head a thick coating of her wetness from amongst the colorful inner folds of her sex, stark against the darkness of her outer lips, notable and captivating in contrast. Finally the erotic motion ceased, it’s purpose fulfilled, as the head of his cock came to rest against the folds along the bottom of the cleft of her sex, primed and poised for entry. His gaze once more met hers, his voice somewhat subdued and comforting despite the underlying note of lust still present.

“There will be pain...but it will quickly pass, after which you should feel pleasure just as before. Gird yourself, and hold on to me if you must...”

His hand left hers and rose to stroke his fingers up her cheek, over her ear as he gripped the side of her neck. He lips pressed against hers as she could feel pressure building at her lower entrance, his hips gently thrusting down, the head of his cock parting her folds, seating itself between her lips. And then he thrust again, this time with more force, with enough power to sink his length inside her, to pierce her maidenhood, to fill her and feel her inner walls wrapped around him.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

He fairly reeked of her - almost as if her smell was seeping from his pores. She could taste herself on his lips, dark and musky, the slight bite of salt, the taste that was intrinsically her that she couldn’t define. Combined with the taste of him, a burgeoning familiarity that was growing there, she felt comfort, security. That everything would be okay.

Concern flickered in her eyes at the sound of his heavy breathing; worried that he wasn’t as well as his libido would lead him to believe. His lips touched her cheek, and she placed a soothing hand on the back of his neck, fingering the fine hair at the nape. A quiet reminder for him to take it easy, though she could feel the same heat that spurred him pressing her forward, refusing to let her take a much needed breath. Her hand stayed at the nape of his neck as he kissed her, reveling in the softness, allowing a sliver of tenderness to slip into the gesture. She wanted him to pace himself, not to injury himself further, with no clear opportunity to say so -

Save for now: “Careful!” It was sharp; her own body shifting beneath his to steady him. Through the lust that wrapped the two of them, she broke away, her eyes going to the bandage on his arm, a quick check to see if he was bleeding afresh. Only when she was satisfied that he had truly not injured himself further did she settle back beneath him, with a parting glance to his left arm. A delicate touch there; fingertips of her left hand ghosting over it before she would allow her attention to be brought back to what he wanted it. She could feel him, of course, but was caught between fear and modesty to look further. Would staring at it be welcome, or would he tell her to stop? Was it proper?

Well, she would soon have no choice; her hand was closed over him, and her fingers jerked, held in place by his own hand. It was involuntary - an instinct that she had overstepped her bounds, even though his hand had guided her to him. His skin was so warm, so silken beneath her fingers that it brought to her face a sense of marvel, the desire to want to touch more, just to feel how the skin would slip back and forth there. Without further prompting from him, her grasp lightened, only just so, so her fingers, still encircling his girth, could stroke him, mild little things up and down, feeling him. “It’s so big,” she said, wonder in her voice, “So hard, but soft…” Her stroking continued, experimentally, her fingers tightened, then loosened, then tightened again, testing the feel of his flesh. It felt that she could barely close her hand around him - if she tried, she felt she would squeeze too hard, that it would be painful for him. And pain was the last thing that she wanted to cause him. “I like the way it feels,” her voice was lighter, a smile there, the happy, boundless discovery of a child. More questions would have followed, she was drawing a breath to ask her next one - but it rushed out of her in a startled gasp as he pressed lower, the head of his cock pressing against her lips.

Instantly, without her fully knowing, her hips bucked up into his, narrowly missing taking him in, due to both his steady grip and her eagerness. The head of his cock slid fluidly against her labia majora, slipping past them to brush against her mons pubis, then to the crook of her thigh. A soft sound escaped her, an exhalation between clenched teeth verging on a whine.

Marcus would soon learn something about his new bride: she was not patient.

To be fair, it would be new to her: so much of Gaia’s life had involved patience in one sense or the other - from waiting for seeds to take, the changing of the seasons, weaving, sitting while Natta braided her hair. Even when there was a sense of excitement, such as going on a hunt, patience was still required there. Now? He was teasing her mercilessly, and she nearly hated him for it, never mind how good the friction felt, how the solid feel of his phallus against her clit brought newer, fresher waves of pleasure, smaller than his tongue, true, but pleasurable all the same, but maddening beyond all believe, to know he was so close to what she needed, but wouldn’t just give it to her. No, he seemed content to watch her squirm, to see her hips continually rise and fall in futility as she tried to use trickery to get him to enter her, her hand never pressing back against his, never seeking to guide his to her core. It was a testament to his calm guidance that when his hand left hers alone on his shaft that she didn’t instantly draw him to her. No - she ran her thumb up and down the puffed vein that ran the center of him, marveling at the feel of it, each touch bringing new knowledge. And his head - the color of it! She would peer between their bodies, craning her head the best she could, but wanting to roll to her side so she could see better, to focus solely on him, but that would come later. Should she ask for that, or should she just do it? Best to think of it later, though the flushed, nearly purple head, shining with her fluids and the clear fluid from him, made her mouth twitch. Something about how that head slipped in and out of the sleeve of his foreskin, the color of it, made her instantly want to take it in her mouth, as round and as perfect as the pomegranates that she loved. Whether she realized it or not, her tongue caressed her lower lip, past the healing wounds of the raid, poked the side of her upper lip, a bit of impatience there, a hunger that had no words yet, no experience. When he would look up at her, there was that eager curiosity on display, the playful nature that he’d yet to see from her, the side she kept buried, only for her brother as he continually showed her new things. But then, there was a dewy eyed longing, a hunger that the best whores could only imitate. As his cock jumped in her hand, she laughed, surprised, amused, and utterly besotted. What a wonderful thing to have discovered - and surely, she’d only just begun. Why in the world had she been so afraid of this?

She would see his kiss coming; tilt her head up with a smile to take his lips against hers, exhaling in a soft sigh, a gust of heat against his nose. Her tongue met his, welcoming a favored friend, not pausing even as he tweaked her nipple, a squeak of surprise the only sound she made. It had been a surprise, it had been gentle - but what would it feel like if he pinched? If he bit? The stray thought sent heat further into her body, that desire for a bit of roughness that she had no explanation for. He wouldn’t have to guide her much - her hand easily slipped down his shaft, tangled into the dense hair at the base of it. So like her own, but different, finer. With some effort, she shifted her left hand beneath the right, to cup the heavy sack that dangled below his cock. The weight of them surprised her; how troublesome would it be to walk around with such things between his thighs? For a moment, she seemed content to cup them, but soon that wasn’t enough, and fumbling, she would try and roll them between her fingers, gently, of course, her touch feather-light, but questing, her ears straining to hear any change in his breathing, in his words, to know if her touch was welcome. Her grasp on his sack would tighten, only so much, before releasing entirely as he guided himself into her, parting the swollen labia majora to gather her wetness, her body bucking hard into him, jostling him so close, oh so close, but not yet inside of her -

Pain, yes - a strange sting that brought tears to her eyes. They were brief, an involuntary reaction, like if she accidentally pricked her finger. She thought that it would pass, soothed by his words, but oh, no matter how wet she was, how easily her folds parted for him, he was stretching her, ripping her open, and she writhed beneath him, a bitten off sob into his mouth as both arms wrapped helplessly around his neck, his upper back, nails biting into him without shame, without any regard to the pain she may have caused him.

“It’s too big; too much,” she choked, frightened now, her sex fluttering, quivering around him, holding him tighter. She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to push forward, if she could take it, or if he had to hold still, and her inner walls reflected it, clenching around him involuntarily, even as she flinched, even as each new flutter brought more tears to her eyes. It was agony being caught like this, an agony that she wanted to end, she wanted the pleasure back, to figure out how and why her body had demanded this, had needed him inside of her and yet it hurt like this - and then, her hands were free from his back, and latched onto the firm muscles of his rear. Her teeth found the side of his neck as she suddenly pushed him into her, using the little strength that she had left in her arms to make sure that he was totally engulfed in her. She bit down harshly then, not unkindly, out of shock and surprise and pain as she took him all in, surprising herself, her sex flexing, struggling to deal with the sudden intrusion of his girth and length. She parted her legs wider beneath him, trying to accommodate him, all the while, her hands keeping a tight grip on his ass, forcing him all the deeper, keeping him buried within her. When her teeth left his neck, she replaced them with her face, pressing hard there, and were he to see her face, he would see that of a woman in pain, but bravely wanting to move forward, to take him all in, to handle him. “It’s so big,” she gasped against his neck, not knowing any other way to put it, how to explain to him that he was carving his own way into her body, the first man she’d ever taken this way, the first thing that she’d had in her sex? Why was her pain just a small puff against the flame of her desire, no, maybe not that, but…added to it?

He’s stretching me to fit him, and only him - marking me as his -

It was enough to make heat bloom in her cheeks again, to push her hips into his to ensure that he couldn’t move, that he would continue to lay within her and mold her to him precisely. And in those fevered thoughts, it suddenly came to her that the pain had lessened, little more than momentary twinges, and that simply laying there wasn’t enough. That maybe…a tentative lift of her hips, then a slow drop, pulling herself back and away from him, her hands softer now, releasing the grip she had on his rear to dance back to his shoulders, his neck, wanting to keep him close, but needing more, much more, to banish those lingering traces of soreness away.

 

[Talon]

If not for the difference in skin tone it would be difficult to tell when Marcus began and Gaia ended as their bodies melded together in sensual embrace like interlocking pieces of a puzzle. Particularly close fit pieces at that, as if they required the forceful tap of a mallet to fully seat. This was no more evident than where their bodies intimately met and interfaced, and as Gaia voiced her concerns, her feedback on the size of his sex, Marcus felt the natural response of any red blooded male; his ego soared to new heights.

It was fortunate that she had chosen to press her face to his neck, in Marcus' estimation, as she may otherwise have been provoked to laughter at the sight of the expression he wore plainly across his features. After having sunk his length into the vice-like grip of the veritable furnace that was her sex, his eyes rolled back into his head, mouth slightly agape, an inelegant gasp expelled from his lungs with an audible “Unngh.”

Gods...I could lay like this forever, buried to the hilt in her...if ever I’m asked to give definition to the word pleasure, I know now what my answer will be…

As her face was currently pressed into the nape of his neck his mouth was positioned at the top of her ear. He tucked his chin, moving his lips against her ear, hoarsely giving his response to her voiced concerns in a near whisper. “It is...but it’s not too much, right? I think it’s just enough…”

He pulled his hips back a fraction, dragging a few centimeters of his cock back through her passage with them. He immediately pressed back into her, not a thrust so much as a grinding motion, to send his cock surging back to its full length inside her.

“Tell me, now that you’ve come to know the feeling...could you truly be satisfied by anything less?”

His hips moved back again, this time the range of motion a little deeper, sending a fraction more of his length sawing in and out of her depths as his hips ground against the inside of her thighs, the firm muscles there constricting around his middle, his pelvis pressing into her with such strength that it seemed he desired to drive it through her, not merely into her.

He shifted, then, preparing for the flurry of activity that only he could know would soon follow, pulling her upper body up to allow his right arm to slide beneath it, his elbow pressing into the bed, his palm cupping the nape of her neck as he let her shoulders fall back against the bed. He rolled his weight to his right side, onto his uninjured arm, his right hip pressing against her thigh, as his left hand reached up to pull her arm down from around him. He then pressed it back against the bed, the flesh of his palm against hers, fingers intertwining as he held their arms outstretched above them, the back of her palm pressed into the sheets. With their upper bodies now in the desired position, Marcus’ hips once more leveled out, his knees pressing into the mattress, giving him the three points of contact that would be necessary to generate the leverage to work his hips as freely as he desired.

Marcus’ head moved over towards her right side, down towards the pit of her arm, his face buried there, his breath hot against her sensitive flesh as he paused there a moment to drink in her scent, the smell of her sweat, and she could feel his cock throb and jump inside her in response, just as it had while she had held it in her hand. His head moved then, lips dragging across her skin, planting a light kiss on the soft line of muscle along where her chest met shoulder, moving up along the inside of her arm, at the slight hint of her bicep, back down to her collarbone and across it until they stopped along her neck. Here his teeth nibbled, then, as his hips once more started their grinding motion, this time from side to side, not pulling his length from her but mashing their bodies together as his hips rolled back and forth, the hair at their pubis, already damp with her arousal, grinding together, his cock pressing into her, the engorged knob at the tip probing further, deeper, as if attempting to burrow itself into her very core.

Marcus’ lips moved up her neck, kissing along her jawline until they once more were upon hers. Their tongues mingled as easily as before, the sensual dance between them now practiced and smooth, as his hips ceased their movements. He broke the deep kiss with a final soft peck against her pillowy lips as his eyes met hers. “Perhaps I should have taken you like this, that night in the courtyard…”

Without waiting for her answer his hips pulled back far enough to classify what followed as a thrust, that fat knob at the tip of his cock rubbing against the top and sides of her passage as the force sent it rushing back into her, his pelvis colliding with an audible slap, Marcus pausing a moment to once more flex the muscle that caused his prick to throb and jerk upwards inside her as he spoke again.

“...I should have bent you over, pulled up your stola…”

His hips rose and fell, their flesh slapping together with a wet ‘thwap’, the heavy sack that held his testicles smacking against the inside of the cheeks of her rump along the ridge of the valley that divided them.

“...grabbed you by the hips and fucked you like you didn’t even know you needed to be…”

Thwap thwap

This time it was two thrusts, one right after another, his cock hauled from her depths until only that thick head remained between her walls, before it was suddenly sent surging back into her roughly, reversed back, and then buried again.

“...instead of raising your fists you would have been shaking that rump at me like a harlot…”

Thwap thwap thwap thwap

Now four thrusts in rapid succession, Marcus grunting with the effort, his left hand squeezing her right as he still held it outstretched above them, his other gripping the back of her neck, a light sheen across his forehead as he began to sweat with the effort of drilling his length into her, with as tight as the walls of her cunt gripped him, it was no small effort.

“...inviting me to invade you deeper…”

Thwap

“...begging me to pound you harder…”

Thwap thwap

“...like some whore. But not just any whore...my whore…”

It was unlike Marcus to speak like this, even during lovemaking, it just wasn’t generally a part of his routine. But there was something different about this moment, something about the tension that had built, the heat between them, that invoked parts of him he hadn’t realized existed.

And not just in words, as his speech cut off his body picked up the slack, his hips now in constant motion, the thrusts lightening in strength only enough to allow for more speed, his left hand releasing its grip to join his other beneath her, to provide him with maximum leverage as his elbow pressed into the mattress, his injury forgotten or at the very least overridden in the moment by the pursuit of his orgasm.

Thwap thwap thwap thwap thwap…

Gaia had first been introduced to the sensation of a man’s organ inside her, followed closely by the somewhat tender movements most akin to lovemaking. This, what Marcus was introducing her to now, was a proper fucking.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Fully seated within her, she took in a deep breath. It stung, still, her walls stretched to a maximum. But it was getting manageable - like a muscle cramp that would be relieved by further movement. She let out a hot exhale against his neck, her forehead pressed there as she let go, forced her body to relax. The vice grip that her cunt had on his cock fluttered, a slackening of the muscles as she tried to force herself to loosen on him. Her body had tightened to the point that it had pained her in the subconscious effort to keep him from going further - an effort made in futility, but one she had no control over, even as her hands on his rear had pushed him into her to the hilt, more if she could have managed it, the muscles of her sex readily flexing, shifting, as she sucked him in. A flood of warmth would wash over his cock, almost as if she’d cum, but with the shaky way she took in a new breath, she wasn’t there just yet. There was not a part of her vulva that wasn’t soaked, glistening, already a small pool of her fluids had collected under the cleft of her rear, dampened her labia, tried to ease the passage of his phallus.

Her nose was pressed hard against the side of his throat, her focus more on her breathing, trying to regulate, trying to bring her pulse down to slower than the hummingbird wing beat that it was currently at. So fast it felt it would leap out of her chest, made it hard for her to breathe. The pain had largely passed - so he was right - but it was still new, still something to get used to. It was not pleasurable, not like his tongue on her cunt had been - that much she knew. Would it take much longer for it to feel better? Would it only be pleasurable for him? The sound he’d made when she pulled him as deep as he could fit certainly made it seem that he was enjoying himself, though she kept her face on the side of his neck. A scarlet ring was blossoming there, the imprint of her teeth - though not hard enough to have broken the skin. A slight ripple of remorse - improper, indecent; a Roman woman, a bride worth her dowry, should have born the breaking of her maidenhood with the same stoicism as a soldier faced battle. And what had she done? Cried out and bit him, like a wild animal. Her forehead rested against the side of his neck before she shifted and leaned closer, her tongue flicking out to caress the mark she’d left, a lick that turned into a suckling kiss before her lips left his throat, replaced with the line of her nose as she pressed into him again.

He’d spoken to her; she’d heard him, but the words could have been the rumblings of a beast for all that she understood them. She was caught in the wild sea of her body, of new sensations, of being full, of trying to register how and why her body had wanted this so much, to test new muscles, to clench and loosen on him, curiously, seeing what caused her pain, what seemed to add to the small flame of feeling…good? Was it good? Maybe - she wasn’t sure yet, still processing what it was like to be this full. What else could she compare it to? He had been poured into her, it felt like now, her body molding to his, restructuring to fit him - and despite that pain, the stretching that still lingered, those muscles, new to her, and that small spot at the top of her sex that he’d known, that he’d shown her with the strokes of his tongue, began to work together, in a manner that made her eyes widen, her hips to angle beneath his.

“Oh…” she moaned, low, shameless. He could feel her nearly melt, her body puddling beneath his as her hips angled at just the right space beneath him, the ridge of his Adonis belt pressing down against that button, at least, that’s what it felt like, a button of flesh, causing flares of bliss to course through her, her cunt tightening on him, bathing him with a fresh coat of her fluids, thick and clear, so thick that it was beginning to slip into white, so much that it was collecting beneath her, around him, painting his pubic hair in clear shades of her arousal. He shifted beneath her, and she arched into him, lifting up to allow his right arm to slip under her. The jostling of their readjustment caused him to slip, to rub harder against her, and the sigh that left her was that of love songs, longing, content, hunger, being sated. She trembled in his arms, beneath him, but her right leg looped around his waist, pulling him deeper into her. The right wasn’t enough - it was soon joined by her left, hooked by her ankles around his lower back, spurring him deeper into her with each audible slap of his cock into her, his sack against her sodden labia. The slaps of skin together were muted by that wet squelching, a sound that only rose in volume, threatened to drown out his growled words to her. With each withdraw, he was nearly forced out by the tightening of her cunt around him, the vice-like grip not helped at all by how wet she was, serving to force him out that much easier, each withdraw met with a whine from her, a shifting of her hips, the dig of her heels into his sides to keep him buried deep within her.

“No, don’t,” she sighed, unable able to stop herself with that first long withdraw of him, “Please don’t, don’t go, don’t pull out, it’s starting to feel better, it’s-” She was cut off, his thrust hard and deep within her, like he was trying to thrust beyond what her body could handle, a thrust so deep and hard she could feel it between the cleft of her rear, her sphincter tightening in sympathy, a fresh wave of arousal pouring from her, her sentence cut off with a high, keening yelp: desire, surprise, a faint bit of pain as he pushed hard, too hard, brushed up something too high and too deep in her that caused pain unlike his tearing of her maidenhood, fresh tears coming to her eyes as she writhed beneath him, trying to slip away, the grip of her ankles loosening - already, a limitation had been reached, a lesson learned.

New pain was forgotten as he withdrew, giving the gasping woman time to catch her breath, to sink back into his arms, to blink away those new tears, to look bleary eyed up at him, unsure, but not wanting to stop, eyes narrowing as he spoke. How dare he! Suggest that he should have taken her just like a wild animal on their wedding night, and in the courtyard of her father, no less! Her face flushed a deeper shade of brown, mingling red as her cheeks were filled with blood, a contrast that would only be noticeable by those intimately familiar with the way her dark skin filtered color. The deep haze of bliss that had clouded her features was sliced through cleanly by insult, a stiffening of her body beneath his - instantly rinsed away by his next thrust, any indignation lost as his phallus carved deep within her, the jostling of her clitoris against their pressed bodies causing more sparks of light to explode at the corners of her eyes. Any remark she could have made was lost in the sharp cry she let out - cries that would only get louder with each hard, perfectly timed thrust from him. It wouldn’t be long before she was moaning without abandon, the only bit of modesty left in her causing her to bury her face in his neck to try and muffle those shrieks of her. To no avail, for his hips, his words, kept shaking them from her, and she was dimly aware that with each cry, she was drooling onto his neck, her mouth fixed open, her cheeks still flushed, as he continued to push her harder and harder towards that familiar tightening of her stomach, now joined by the tightening of her sex around him, making it that much harder for him to thrust deeper into her, for it felt that her passage, her walls, were tightening to the point that he would be permanently locked out, the natural response from him was just to thrust that much harder, to pull that much more power into his hips.

The bed beneath them would creak with his efforts, growing louder as his thrusts sped up. The sound of the sea, the morning birds, all would be drowned out by the squeaking of the bed, the moans from her that had graduated into screams with each of his hard thrusts, her modesty completely abandoned. His words, when they filtered through, shocked her, insulted her, but it didn’t matter, not now, they could have been words that he’d said to dozens before, it didn’t matter, not now, with what he was doing to her. Her thighs tightened on his sides, trying in vain to keep him deep within her, to pull him further into her each time he thrust down into her, her back rattling against the bed, the sheets beginning to burn against the flesh of her back. It was getting harder for her to keep him within her, the sweat from his body coated her own, her brown skin, free of the red ochre, now shining with his sweat, a glistening coat turning her skin into marble, the smoothness of it working against her, slipping and sliding like sealskin beneath him.

He was still infuriating; he was still insulting her, saying such filthy things, questioning her purity, even as he ripped through it, and had she truly wanted to, she could have stopped it, bucked him off, but she was weak, too weak, because his words simply made her wetter, made the fire within her burn so hot, so high, until she couldn’t take it, and she was yowling at the top of her lungs now, her voice scraped raw, little more than an animal in heat. The high pitched purity of it went ragged as her second orgasm raked through her with a violence that made her buck her hips so hard into his, seating him deeper than before, sending flares of pain through her again, but what did it matter, for in the same moment, she clenched so tightly on him that she nearly forced him out, coasting along on the waves of cum that spurted from her, coating his cock, drenching her sex all the more, until the bed was so damp that it was as if she’d wet herself. Only the clinging grip of her thighs, her ankles around him kept him from being forced all the way out, her arms scrabbling, breaking free from his grasp to latch onto his shoulders, raking long lines down his back, not caring if she broke the skin, she needed to grasp onto something, anything, to anchor her through the intensity of this orgasm, this thing that made her vision turn white and her voice ring distant in her ears.

She clung to him, shaking, as her orgasm slowed, taking her heart rate with it. Her face still burned in the side of his neck, she became aware that through her orgasm, she had started to cry once again, and, with the fumbling arms of a child seeking comfort, she clung to him, sobbing into the side of his neck, completely overcome by the experience she’d just had. It was pleasure beyond her greatest imagining - that much, she could register, but it had done something to her, to her mind, her body, that she didn’t have words for, could potentially never have words for him. She felt tied to him deeper than the wedding vows, tied further beyond the wrought steel of tending to his wound - reinforced by this magic between their bodies. “Oh, I love you, I love you, I love you,” she sobbed into his neck, over and over, clinging to him, looking to him for guidance, for reassurance, for calming through this experience. The weight of what she was saying didn’t register to her, nor did it matter: it was the right thing to say, words pulled out of the well of her soul, to spill over him, to keep him tied to her like this for as long as she lived, past that, and then, the deep fear that he would leave her, that she would go through this madness in vain, but if only he knew what she’d done for him, what she would continue to do for him, had he but asked. “Please don’t leave me,” trembling, scared now, desperate for something, anything from him, some sign that he would at least humor her, even if he was out chasing someone else the next day, she needed to know in that moment that he was as much hers as she was his, Venus had blown open the doors of her heart, the thing that she thought she didn’t possess, and in a day, had set it up to be little more than a temple for her new husband, for this man that she knew nothing about but had brought her this - and Gaia shook still, trembling like a frightened puppy, her cunt still spasming in aftershocks of her orgasm.

 

[Talon]

By the Gods, what a woman…

Marcus was panting, chest rising and falling, each deep intake of air squeezing the firm orbs of her breasts between them as his chest expanded, their abundance spilling out along the sides of their bodies, the thrusting efforts of his hips ceased for the moment as his pelvis lay against her in rest. Her orgasmic vocalizations still reverberated in his ears, the warmth of her fresh orgasmic fluids coating the tops of his thighs and his pubis, the puffy red trail marks down his back where her fingernails had scraped against pale flesh, the indentions that matched the pattern of her teeth at his neck; all proudly worn as if they were medals of the highest honor, awards bestowed upon him by a satiated lover.

As they lay still a moment amongst the sex dampened sheets, basking in the refractory period of her post orgasmic glow, she spoke, opening her heart to him as she so recently had her sex. He could understand the conflicting emotions that must be welling up within her, beyond the significance of this moment, having so recently lost her maidenhood, it had been an eventful past few days. She needed more than just physical pleasure, she needed to be reassured that she would not be cast aside in this vulnerable moment now that he had ‘conquered’ her, as she might have put it.

Brave, as always...

Marcus' arms pulled her up off the mattress and into his chest as he repositioned the both of them, shifting to roll over onto his right side, thoughtful enough to raise his hips so as not to press into her thigh with the bone there as they moved, settling the firm section of musculature along his side above it and below his ribcage into her instead, his right arm sliding up to allow her head to cushion against his bicep, left arm sliding down her back, open palm sliding along that curve in her lower back above her buttocks. He was gazing into her eyes then, those large, expressive windows into her soul, his own features soft, a gentle smile worn across his lips.

“I am yours as you are mine, joined together by the laws of men in marriage and in the eyes of the Gods by love.” He leaned in to kiss her, this time but a light peck on the lips, the right corner of his mouth curling back into his trademark half smile as he pulled away. “Know it or not, you have captured my heart, Gaia...where you go, it follows.” His smile turned sly, then, the glint in his eyes mischievous. “And besides, what sort of a man retreats from the embrace of a woman who is blessed with such a wonderfully shaped backside?”

She could feel the response of Marcus’ prick, it’s wordless nod of agreement, as it surged inside of her. His hand that had been softly rubbing across the base of her spine dipped lower then, not to crudely cup or grasp, but to slide up and over the flesh above her hips, down across the left cheek of her buttocks, fingertips straying into the cleft that divided them as the slid past. There was silent admiration in the warmth of his gentle touch, an appreciation for the way she was formed, of all the curves of her shapely body, not merely those most often appealing to male admirers.

“You are built like Venus herself shaped your body with her hands, like a sculptor would work with clay…my very own ‘Gaia Kallipygos’. You are truly blessed...and I as well, to be your husband, to be the one that you choose to freely share the enjoyment of that blessing with.”

Marcus kissed her then, softly, sensually, a distinct difference in tone from when their tongues frantically explored the other’s as they passionately coupled. As their lips met, so did his hips resume their movement, once more with the grinding, moving rhythmically like the ebb and flow of the tide outside their window. His efforts were somewhat eased by the preponderance of fluids her recent orgasm had offered, yet even then, still her walls hugged and engulfed his shaft and the engorged head atop it within their firm grip, constricting with just enough force to inhibit his passage but not bar it. His left hand continued the exploration of the cheeks of her rump, mapping out its contours as if he were a sightless man exploring exact detail through touch, squeezing within his palm a handful of the abundance of flesh it found there, slick as it was with the remnants of her orgasmic juices that had pooled beneath them. Marcus felt the desire once more building, that knot tightening in his gut, the ache in his testicles that instinctually drove him to seek release, to plant his seed deep within his mate’s belly.

Marcus was up, then, moving with a purpose, an urgency borne of lust, pulling back away from her, his phallus pulled from the grasp of her sex unceremoniously as he firmly pressed her thighs away from his middle, freeing him to move, to reposition, to move behind her, knees pressed into the mattress as a hand was pressed firmly to her hip, a silent bid for her to remain still where she lay. That hand then slid across her thigh, stopping behind the back of her knee, pushing her leg up to bend at the knee in front of her as she lay on her side. Marcus moved to straddle her straightened left leg, his muscular thighs bisecting the firm thickness of her own, knees pressed into the mattress to either side of her as he positioned himself for penetration.

Marcus growled lowly in his throat as he clapped his left hand down against her upturned right butt cheek, gripping it and shifting it back, the movement canting her hips so that her exposed sex would be presented at an advantageous angle, its sticky wet lips gaping slightly, lines of thick fluid linked between each side as they parted as if they were the petals of a blossoming flower, flashing a hint at the coloring of her interior folds that lay deeper within. His gaze was cast down between her thighs, to the darkness of her labia, to the dense curls made damp by her orgasmic fluids, his prick throbbing as Gaia’s scent once more filled his nostrils, now familiar from when his lips had last been upon her clit. Marcus’ midsection moved into position, then, the firm musculature of his rump brushing against the inside of her right thigh as he moved, his right hand shifting over from her leg to seize the base of his cock, steadying it as his hips moved forward, peeling back his foreskin to expose the deep reddish-purple around the crown of the head as he aimed it towards her entrance, his grip stroking up and down the shaft a few times as he pressed the head once more to the entrance of her sex, seating itself into her, the ridge along the edge of the crown stretching her open, preparing her for the thickness that would follow behind it.

Marcus’ hips bucked forward roughly, sinking the majority of his cock once more into the warm, snug embrace of her cunt with the power of that single thrust, a loud, wet squelch expelled from around his shaft in response, almost as if in protest, as his length and girth tested the limits of her capacity to accommodate him anew, the change in position allowing him to enter her a fraction more deeply than the last. He held her there a moment, gripping her thigh in one hand and buttock in the other, before his shoulders leaned back as he started to move again, to pump his hips, slowly building momentum with each thrust, with each deep foray of his prick, his head thrown back, upturned towards the ceiling as he began to grunt, animalistically, rhythmically, in time with each thrust.

It was difficult to gauge exactly how long he labored there, hands clinging to her for leverage, pulling her back into him, that heavy sack that dangled down between his thighs slapping against her as it swung pendulously beneath him, the force jostling her up the bed each time their bodies met, the thick knob at the tip of his cock carving a different path through her on account of the new angle of penetration, rubbing against sections inside her that previously went neglected. He paused a moment, his head falling, fresh sweat from his brow rolling down his face, across his chest, a few errant drops falling to splash down against her thigh, the musculature in his shoulders rippling as he renewed his grip on thigh and rump, a slight shifting of his knees to resettle his position. Once more he erupted into motion, his hips pumping back and forth, his pelvis colliding into hers, cock sawing in and out of her depths, her right leg pulled against his midsection. His eyes were screwed shut, a slight grimace worn on his visage as he endeavored towards his finish, the sensation burgeoning, growing with each thrust of his cock into the tightness of her cunt, his balls retracting up, tightening, the already thick shaft seeming to swell even further, threatening to rip her sex apart at the seams by virtue of its excessive girth, swelling yet further, too much, Marcus seemingly aiming to split her open as he continued to ram it home with wild abandon, Marcus’ breathing growing ragged, panting...

“Ungggggh…”

Marcus’ hips powered into her one final time as he suddenly seized up, his fingers digging into her flesh where they gripped, knuckles whitening, his whole body spasming in time with the motion of his prick, buried to the root inside her as it bucked with orgasmic energy, delivering its precious cargo in heavy spurts...two, three, four...the spasms weakening in succession...six...that grimace of pleasure washing away to reveal a look of relief, a satiated smile, his shoulders slumping as his hands relaxed their grip. Marcus leaned forward over her to press his forehead into her shoulder, seeking a stable place to rest a moment as he recovered, panting breathlessly, drawing air deeply into his lungs as he slowly came down off the high of his release. Where their bodies still met she could feel his phallus shrinking inside her, deflating down to a fraction of its former size, Marcus lingering a moment to ensure the entirety of his seed was delivered in fulfillment of his husbandly duty.

“By the gods, woman...that was amazing...you are amazing...”

Marcus started to pull away, his eyes heavy as if he were several cups deep into a cask of wine, the aches and pains of injury returning sharply as the drive to procreate had been sated, a slight wince as he leaned back, his phallus pulled from her with a wet shlick as his hips pulled away, Marcus turning to fall to the mattress beside her. He neglected to think about the injury to his left arm and she could hear a sharp gasp of pain issued from his lips as he fell upon it. A low chuckle followed, building to laughter, as he pressed himself up against her back, his chin tucking over her right shoulder, beside her head, their bodies pressed together once more in post coital embrace as his right arm wrapped around her, hand pressed to her stomach, his now dormant sex pressed into the cleft of her buttucks as he cuddled up behind her.

His lips were at her ear, then, gently whispering, his voice mirthful and tinged with the remnants of his laughter. “What say we do that again, hmm? Later, of course, perhaps after a nap...and a warm meal...and a bath...perhaps a change of sheets...whatever will the servants who have to change them think of their deviant masters?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She was exhausted, her voice hurt, her body throbbed, still processing the new information it had just obtained. She could feel the skin of his back rippling beneath her fingers, in her nails, the way her heels had dug mercilessly into his sides in her desperate bid to keep him buried within her. And her cunt? Oh, it was sore, the soreness building as she was steadily coming down.

But still her tears flowed, and she’d sniffle, embarrassed, elated still.

I have no way of knowing which way is up.

Where to begin? Her hearing was foggy, a dim ringing in her ears that made her feel underwater. She had to blink away tears and sweat, she winced as her cunt continued pulsing around him, slower now, as her body was coming down. Though the flutters were milder, slower in coming, they did little to alleviate the oncoming soreness. She seemed quite dazed, her arms fumbling for purchase, before looping loosely around his neck as he moved them. There was surprise in her clumsiness, a struggling to move with him, not against him. And though the movement was slight, carefully controlled by him, the feeling of his cock within her, shifting as he did, elicited a small cry from her, her walls tightening again subconsciously.

Face to face with his chest, she snuggled close, docile now, her shaking easing. Instead, there was a long, heavy sigh. A combination of being sated, of relaxation, of her sheer fatigue coming to a head. Her senses were returning, and with them, the weight of her words, the troubling flicker in her stomach that she may have said something stupid, something born out of the intensity of her first orgasm with a man’s cock buried within her. It was something that happened, wasn’t it - hadn’t she heard such tales?

Perhaps worry about it later, soothed her mind.

He had pushed her to so many limits; things he hadn’t thought of, she was sure of. Things that wouldn’t bother him, that could be brushed off as childish infatuation. She moved her hands from his neck to pillow against his chest, touching her forehead to him. His heart beat was as fast as hers, a rapid tattoo buried beneath his breastbone. His voice brought her back to the world, and she looked up at him, her eyes dark, shining with her recently shed tears.

There was that word again, “love.” Said by her in the heat of the moment, him before, and now - was this normal? They had just met; had been at each other’s throats not that long ago. Her brows knit as she listened to him, her eyes flickering down to his lips once, then back to his eyes as he spoke. Those dark eyes, blurred over by orgasmic bliss, by her tears, struggled for clarity, for some logic, some flaw, in what he’d said. It wasn’t possible for men to fall in love. Not like this, not this quickly. Not from what the stories said. Could it be that the moment he grew tired of her flesh, his feelings would wane as well? It was a plunge into a cold pool, thoughts that started her tears afresh, spilling down her cheeks even as she closed her eyes to return his peck, sniffling, rather undignified, as they came apart.

So this is my fate - to burn like this. Gods help me.

Her right hand moved from his chest to caress the side of his face as he spoke, his words dull, slipping in one ear and out the other even as his left hand slipped from her lower back to caress her rear. What would be in those eyes of hers? An unbearably deep sorrow, of a loss she hadn’t the words for. The mourning of a moment, of a truth, that had passed.

He is my husband, but a stranger. I know nothing of him, yet, he has been with women before, I know of that much. He knows what to say to a woman like me; knows how to ease my heart. I am grateful for his life, for his presence beside me…but..

A snorted laugh, muffled, even as more tears fell, as he praised her ass.

Imagine, the same butt that Magnus considers fat and disagreeable, he praises.

How funny life was. Had it been a day earlier, his hands on her would have been one of the most unwelcome touches she could have imagined; any intrusion on her body would have been a violation, a disregard of the space that she occupied. Such had been her reaction to his grabbing of her backside the night of their wedding. She had been self-conscious before the wedding, knowing of the slap-dash proportions of her body, at least, by the way her family had put it. In the aftermath of her orgasm, of the raid before, she had no time to think of it as an object of a man’s desires. It had been, and would continue to be, hers, that much she knew, a wonderful knitting of blood and bone that had allowed her to do what she had done the day before. So if she could not be beautiful, she was at least capable, and that gave her comfort. His touch, though, was not unwelcome, and though her body had stiffened as she lost herself in thought, drawing away from him unconsciously, a spark of it seemed to return back to him, to relish in his touch as a cat would a hand laid across its back.

Is it wrong that he likes your body? Do you not like his?

The second question would echo in her mind - she hadn’t had a good look at him, just flashes. Should she correct that? Should she get too attached, to fall deeper into that furnace?

He says ‘husband’ as if I had a choice. Venus, help me, help me through this, please, I need a clear head - What do I do…?

Venus saw fit to send her reply through Marcus. He kissed her, and she was crying again, not a loud, choking sob as she had in the carpentum, but a silent downpour, her chest shaking with the effort of keeping herself quiet. Her mind was still a buzz, her body still ached for him, that fire sparked through her tired flesh by his grinding, and she was crying harder now, unable to stop herself, unable to keep it from bubbling to the top and spilling over. There would be no hiding these tears, not through her discreetly trying to wipe them away, but there would be a change in her body, as if she was forcing a coolness to take over her, to pull her true self back in, to lock it away from his prying eyes and hands.

She had done what she needed to as a wife, had she not sacrificed her beauty for his well-being? For his continued well-being? What else would she need to do, why did she have no one to confide in when she needed them most?

She didn’t fight as he re-positioned himself and her; but she did let out a soft, half-hearted cry as he pulled out of her. His cock would be nearly luminescent from her spendings, streaked with smears of blood that lightened into pink, deeper swatches of red on the inside of her thighs, slipping from the deep wet rose of her sex. There would be no question of her purity there; he had ripped through her, and so he did again, a sharper cry, edging closer to a sob, as he thrust into her again. The newer angle did indeed open her up wider to him, allowed him a depth he hadn’t reached before, and her muscles tightened in protest, too newly used, too newly found. Not that it would make a difference; he sawed into her, and cries of pleasure were tinged with sobs, she was crying loudly now, her own emotions all over the place. She couldn’t deny how her body responded to his, how her cunt sucked him in, how she clenched on him to keep him in, how her right hand strayed to the top of her sex, fumbling, slipping in her own juices, their combined sweat, to find that button that lay there. A press here, missed, then, again, and her eyes fluttered closed, she’d found it. Frantic movements of her fingers to match his pace, ungraceful, but functional as she stroked that button, the flesh hot and slick beneath her fingers, but sore still, like it had been rubbed raw, but if she kept at it, she might just reach that mountaintop again, where she could just focus on climbing it, on reaching the top, to banish all of those other thoughts away, all of the longing, all of the desire to know her heart and his better, to want to be closer, to learn all that there was about him, to pour him deeply into her -

Her fingers cramped with her effort, but she wouldn’t stop. The sounds she was making, those cat yowls, the choked sobs, nearly were drowned out by the sloshing of their sexes together, she could feel her own wetness spread from the cleft of her rear to her lower back, and then, that hard thrust from him, and another sob from her, not of pleasure, but of pain - had she been speaking through those cries, had she told him more of how big he was, how he was tearing her apart, how she couldn’t handle anymore, all to fall on deaf ears as he continued to thrust into her, pushing her past the limits she thought she couldn’t go past? Surely there must have been some words in there, some pleading, begging for him to remove his cock, he was tearing her, it was too much, but somehow, his growling, panting, had convinced her that she could, that there was a beast under the skin of that man, a beast that she welcomed with a third, weak orgasm pulled from her right before he came - heralded by a sharp gasp from her, a surprise that she could feel that tumble again, small as it was. It made sense in the moment that there wouldn’t be another explosion of her senses, her body was tired, sore beyond sore, the new angle he had carved into her had been too much, much too much -

Her back arched off the bed as he came, the hot bursts of him into her body pushing her past that weak third orgasm, sending her body flexing around his as if she’d cum again, but she hadn’t, not past that third time.

“It’s so hot,” she gasped, her eyes wide, her cunt sucking at him, sucking up the spilling of his seed, eager, clenching tightly still as he shrunk. “What is it…” It was a question without an answer, a reveling, an unspoken understanding that the marriage had been consummated to its fullness; that there would be no going back now. He filled her to overflowing; she felt it spill over her thigh, pooling rapidly under her leg, cooling as soon as it left her body. And when he withdrew, his limp cock would be followed by a flood of his cum, mixed, added to her own, so that her trembling labia, the deep pink of her vaginal opening, flexed in turn, spitting more out, drenching her, washing away the small streaks of blood from her thighs. His cum would be slightly pink, carrying the blood of her maidenhood away with it, before it would continue to spill from her opaque white.

It hurt.

Everything hurt. The wounds from the raid, the newly opened bud of her sex; all throbbed. All in tune with her head, and she wanted nothing more than to curl in on herself, to do what she could to feel like the ground was solid beneath her. The hiss of pain caused her to turn to him, as quickly as she could, but it wasn’t quick enough. He had his arm around her, his face in the crook of her neck, wet with tears and his sweat. He wouldn’t be able to see her eyes, wide with confusion, fear, uncertainty, as she stared at the opposite wall. He could feel her shaking, though it could be easily written off as post coital humming. His voice was light in her ear, laughter that would have warmed her felt miles away.

She wouldn’t move away from him as he pressed closer, but he could feel her move her hands to her face. And he’d hear her begin to sob in earnest again, the sound muffled by her palms, her shoulders shaking.

 

[Talon]

Marcus rose up as quickly as he had fallen, his brow furrowed, lips pressed together, concern worn openly on his features. His gaze was drawn towards her face, to the back of the hands pressed there, to the bandage that covered the wound on her arm, her upper body spasming in time with the muffled sobs escaping her lips. The bandage...Marcus’ eyes settled there a moment, his gaze growing distant as it locked there, eyes gleaming wetly.

Brute...how did you not see that she herself had been wounded? Why did you not care to check? She sat over you, watching, waiting...and the moment you gained consciousness you crudely fell upon her and ravaged her like some damned barbarian. You think yourself an honorable man...well, look now upon your wife, see what pain your lustful actions have wrought…

Marcus’ chest tightened, his shoulders wilting as an almost overwhelming sense of regret washed over him. Just as things were improving between them, again he let lust overpower rational thought. He looked away, his hand raising to shield his eyes, thumb and third finger squeezing at the outside corners, pressing into the bone just below his brow.

Compose yourself, Marcus. Maybe you should tend to her before bothering to nurse your wounded pride…

Fingers swept across closed eyes then, sweeping along with them moisture that had built there, before falling to her arm, Marcus reaching out, a soft, almost hesitant touch as he lightly gripped the cap of her shoulder. “Gaia…”

Words escaped him in the moment, as he found they often did when most needed to provide comfort. Never in war, he’d know what to say then, what to say to light a fire in the belly of his Legionaries. Too bad he wasn’t in that situation now, he thought. Less complicated, kill or be killed. Simple, as straightforward as it gets.

“...I…I’m sorry, Gaia...please…”

Marcus sat up, climbing over her gingerly, cautious not to hurt her or further aggravate his injury as he moved to lay on the opposite side, at her front, facing her.

“Forgive me…”

He reached out, his left arm draped over her, attempting to pull her head in towards his chest, to offer her comfort and solace in the only way he really knew how, through intimacy, the closeness of their bodies.

“Tell me of your thoughts, your feelings...what bothers you so? Is it your wounds, have I worsened them on account of my thoughtless action?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

You’re acting a total fool. You’re crying like someone died and you don’t even know why.

It was a stray thought, but one that made her sob all the harder. Shame at her foolishness, for being so overwhelmed, mixed with the maelstrom of emotions that she didn’t have words for.

“I’m sorry,” choked out behind her hands as she finally pulled them from her face. She knew she must have looked a sight; nothing that a man would want to face on his wedding night. The whites of her eyes, once so clear, were spiderwebbed by thin red veins, pink from irritation from her tears, the fatigue of staying up to watch him. The skin around her eyes was swollen, puffed and sore, and she tried to wipe the tears away, even as they continued to fall. Sniffling turned into a heavy snorting of mucus back into her nose. The sound was so loud, so undignified, that despite her tears, a smile broke through, childish, but charming in its weakness, in its sudden appearance, the prologue to a choked off laugh.

“I think I’ve lost my mind,” she managed, before laughter overtook her, shaking her as her tears had. She sat up in the bed, untangling herself from his arm, wiping at her eyes with the heels of her palms. Even through her laughter, she winced as she shifted her legs in front of her, the gesture closing the puffed lips of her sex, reminding her of her soreness. “There’s nothing for you to apologize for,” as mixed up as she was, that much was her own doing. He’d only bestowed her mind-blowing pleasure, taken her maidenhood with a gentleness and then fierceness that made her knees shake to think of it. She’d just had him, but the thought of his member, so big, so swollen, splitting her like that…Her pained sex gave a throb in sympathy. The desire was there, but the flesh was too weak to handle it.

“I must be mad,” laughter now, high, unrestrained. None of the gentile tittering expected of her class, but a loud guffaw, a belly laugh that wouldn’t have been out of place in the barracks at the telling of a bawdy joke. “Completely, and utterly mad.” It would seem that her laughter, like her tears, was beginning to run its course. Pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes, she took in a deep exaggerated breath; let it out as dramatically as she’d taken it in. Madness it must be, for her tongue felt freed, and the words that followed were from her heart.

“I know not why I cry,” another sniffle, as she wiped her nose on her forearm, “I just…I couldn’t stop the tears.” A bit of shyness there, as she drew her knees to her chest. The generous swells of her breasts curved enticingly from beside her knees, the dark centers of her areolas and nipples hidden by them. “It was like…Climbing up a mountain, then falling off into deep, cool water. No, that’s not it. It was like…Oh, Sweet Venus, I don’t have the words for it! Just everything welling up inside of me, a volcano, and all of a sudden, I couldn’t hold back anything anymore. And now I’ve made a great fool of myself, shamed myself yet again in front of my new husband.”

She pressed her forehead to her knees, squeezing her eyes shut tightly before lifting her head and opening them again. There was a faint trace of a smile on her face, apologetic, the brightness of her earlier smile covered in a fine patina of embarrassment. “I should apologize to you, Marcus. A proper one - not just for now - but from the wedding night. All I’ve done is been a bother to you, me, foolish creature that I am, that doesn’t even know her own heart. But I look at you and I lose my senses, and I’ve never felt like this before, and to take your body into mine…” Blushing now, but going with the spurt of courage, she barreled on, unwrapping her arms around her legs to lay her right hand on his, “I didn’t think I’d ever feel anything like that. Like being caressed by the gods themselves, and even that doesn’t do it justice. I don’t have the words for it. I look at you and I want more of it,” her voice dropped, little more than a whisper. “It hurt, yes…but I liked even that, too.” Softer still, almost inaudible, "And I would...I would gladly be your whore, if it meant that you..coupled with me like that. You wouldn't even have to pay me."

A biting of her lower lip as her eyes scanned over his naked form. In the rising morning light, she was able to finally get a good look at him. Without realizing it, her hand left his, and she began to run it over his shoulders, experimentally - then, without fear.

This is Marcus. This is the body that the Gods heeded your prayers and saved. This is your husband. Welcome him.

She shifted from sitting beside him to sit in front of him again. Shyness had overtaken her; the inability to meet his eyes as she moved forward, the sheets unwinding as she leaned forward. Both hands on his shoulders, stroking the lines of him, feeling the tautness of his body, not yet given over to the softness of age. “You are an infuriating man,” whispered low, a refrain she’d sung many times over him, “And I am hopelessly, endlessly besotted with you. I don’t want you to ever leave my side; I want to know everything about you, I never want you not to touch me, to kiss me. It’s all foolishness coming from a foolish woman; I know this: words spun from a idiot who's never had a man's touch before now, addled by the sweetness of that...that...falling. Men are supposed to have many loves while the wife only keeps the flame in her heart for her husband, but I envy even your past wives, your past loves, because they’ve had you for longer than I have, they’ve had a Marcus that I’ll never know. I can’t hold you like a bird in a cage, but I fear how I feel will drive me to further madness.” Another laugh then, her chest heaving as she took in a breath, knowing that her courage was waning, “And I’m sure you’ve heard this all before, and will hear it again before you leave this earth.”

What else could she say? She still didn’t have the words for it. So she moved closer, her lips pressing against his. An apt pupil, her mouth remained chastely closed, before the tentative swipe of a tongue against his mouth allowed hers to rub against his. It wasn’t fevered, but a sense of relief, of that desire, poured back into him. The kiss ending on its own time, she couldn’t help but to look down between his legs. She had been dancing around it since he'd sat up, but her curiosity was overpowering her, and she finally had to give in.

“That was inside of me? He seems so harmless like this; cute!” The last word with an upward inflection, the very manner of a girl describing a new hair ribbon or lamb. “Could I touch him?”

 

[Talon]

Marcus had listened attentively, the initial look of concern fading from his features as Gaia spoke freely of what ailed her. Marcus had rolled onto his side as she hugged her knees to her chest, propping himself up on his good elbow, fist pressed to his cheek as he rested his head there. Despite the emotional strife that she was having to work her way through, Marcus couldn’t help but feel some measure of happiness in sharing this intimate moment with her. Some of those icy walls she had built around her innermost self were beginning to thaw, to melt away and expose the woman beneath.

Marcus felt conflicting emotions as she spoke. On one hand, he felt like he should comfort her, be a source of stability for her to lean on as she navigated the troubled emotional waves that every young person had to sail through. She was a bit old to be undertaking that journey for the first time, he thought, and perhaps was more burdened by it as she didn’t have the virtue of the frivolity of youth helping her move along. Either way, as she spoke of concern for her mental state he reached out to her, brushing his hand across the skin of her leg as she sat before him, just maintaining bodily contact as if to reassure her of his presence. Just the same, he took comfort in the physical intimacy, and offered it freely.

On the other hand, he felt that familiar tug in his gut as she described how she’d felt as they’d coupled, felt a burning across his cheeks, not from embarrassment or modesty, but pride. The pride one felt when they provided a lover with pleasure, performed a job well done. The fact that it was her, his lovely young wife, that he had managed to please, well, it made his heart, and loins, burn all that much hotter. She’d even picked up on his earlier comments, his suggestion that she’d enticed him with her body like a whore, given as they’d been in the heat of coitus.

He’d given comment then, sensing that the tone of their conversation had changed.

"And I would...I would gladly be your whore, if it meant that you..coupled with me like that. You wouldn't even have to pay me." Gaia said.

Marcus smirked, the right corner of his mouth curling back slightly. “I will hold you to that promise...but you’re wrong about one thing, you know. You will be paid for your services...not in gold or jewels, although I imagine you’d be worth a mound of them. But you will have your reward, in the end, and I think you already know what I mean without me even having to name it…”. Marcus winked at her suggestively.

“That was inside of me? He seems so harmless like this; cute! Could I touch him?” Gaia said, having worked her way through apology and an attempt to explain the nature of her troubled state of mind, the mood between them growing playful.

Marcus smiled then, thinking to himself that the pride of most men in his position might be wounded if their genitalia had been described as cute at any stage of arousal, but he took the comment in the spirit with which it had been intended.

“By all means, what’s mine I give unto you freely.” Marcus smirked playfully as he rolled over onto his back before her, his flaccid phallus slouched over against the top of his left thigh, the prominent vein across the top now muted, it’s head concealed, fully enveloped in its natural hood of skin. Upon closer inspection, she would note the network of blue veins just beneath the skin of the plump shaft, marked with fine lines in the otherwise smooth flesh that denoted stretch marks in testament to the organ’s ability to expand well beyond its current dimensions. His testicles had not changed size, seeming all the larger by comparison to their currently flaccid compatriot, and were concealed now between his legs as they hung heavily in their loose sack, lying in rest against the top of the mattress.

Marcus folded his hands behind his head, leaning back into the comfort of the mattress as he lay there, nakedly exposed under her curious gaze, the subject of his new bride still at the forefront of his thoughts. The more Gaia spoke, the more her true personality shined through the cracks in the protective facade of the persona she had assumed, the more enraptured with her that Marcus became. Everything about her appealed to him...the soft natural beauty in the features of her face and body, the tone of her voice, the unladylike quality to her belly laugh, the shyness, the boldness...somehow Marcus had found himself falling head over heels for this woman. He couldn’t point out a single flaw, not one item he would wish to see changed, everything about her was beautiful because it was hers, of her. It had been some time since he’d felt this way about a woman, beyond mere lust for her physical form. Not since…

Ekaterini. His first wife, first love, and the woman he’d known he was destined to live out his life with since he was but a boy without a single hair on his chest.

She was the daughter of a family friend, her father known to his mother, Marina, and grew up just a few villas down from the home of Marina’s father. She was gentle, kind hearted and compassionate, everything young Marcus wasn’t, and had tempered his brash nature as they played together in their youth. He always wanted her to spar with him, to clash wooden blades as they played at being Hector and Achilles, with Marcus always insisting on portraying Hector, of course, and in her accommodating way, she often enough would appease him. They would explore together, pushing further from the safety of their families villas as young Marcus insisted that fortune favored the bold, that he would protect her if harm befell them. For the most part, Marcus hadn’t needed to back up that promise with action, that is, until the Gods saw fit to humble the young boy, to prove to him that he indeed walked the earth as a mortal.

Marcus, growing ever more restless and difficult to corral as he drew closer to manhood, and lacking in the influence of a strong male figure to guide him on a more disciplined path, decided that he was no longer content with merely exploring the surrounding area, telling Ekaterini that he’d heard of a treasure that some bandits had hidden away in a cave in a hidden cove along the coast that was near their families homes. Near enough by horse or cart, perhaps, but it would be a half day by foot, at least. Ekaterini agreed, knowing if she didn’t that Marcus would likely wander off alone, and so the pair set off on their ill fated journey, with the more level-headed and responsible Ekaterini set on convincing Marcus to turn back after they’d made it a good distance down the road.

It was the rainy season, and a particularly notable one, at that, and in the weeks prior to their impromptu trek in the countryside there had been enough rainfall to flood out the landscape. The ground was wet and muddy, and Marcus, being the intrepid but unlearned adventurer that he was, insisted on leading them through what he thought would be a shortcut, through an area of hazardous, rocky terrain the locals often warned against traveling through. It was said that evil spirits made a home there, spirits of misfortune that would set upon unwary travelers, attaching to them, cursing them with foul luck unless ample sacrifices were offered to appease them. Tales of warning that fell on deaf ears in the case of foolhardy young Marcus, afterall, what spirit could withstand the force of his blade, wooden or not?

The pair made some progress before disaster struck a few hours into their journey. Ekaterini, not quite as nimble or agile as the burgeoning young man of action that was Marcus, misstepped, placing her weight on a section of loose dirt near the edge of a ridge, a section loosened by the erosive force of the floods from a week passed. The ground gave way beneath her, robbing the young girl of her balance and sending her careening over the edge and into the chasm below. She’d not fallen terribly far, certainly not enough to be killed on impact, but it had been enough to cause catastrophic harm. Marcus, who had run off ahead and left Ekaterini a few dozen meters behind, reacted to her screams, first of fright and then of pain, and when he arrived, breathless, to look over what remained of the newly formed ridgeline, he identified the source of her pain easily as he could plainly see her left leg twisted into an odd, sickening angle from where she had landed on it.

Marcus lept into action without thought, scrambling down the steep wall to the floor of the chasm she had fallen into. It was about twenty meters down, enough to present an obstacle, but it hardly slowed his haphazard descent. Marcus’ eyes were filled with tears as he attempted to console her while he cleared the rubble from around her leg. Neither of them were well versed in healing techniques, and lacking in options, Marcus helped her to her feet, or rather foot, and bid her climb up his back so he could carry her to safety. They travelled back through the chasm until they found a spot that Marcus could safely ascend with the burden of his passenger clinging to his back. Much as he would be in later life, young Marcus had been somewhat scrawny, perhaps a little undersized for his age, but it mattered not in the moment, adrenaline powering him on, granting him the strength to carry her back the several miles upon his back, unconscious, Ekaterini having blacked out due to the pain several hours into their journey.

She eventually recovered from her injuries and was able to walk without the assistance of a cane, but she forever walked with a noticeable limp to her step. Marcus had been chastised and punished by both her parents and his Mother, but for Ekaterini’s part, she claimed he need not apologize, that it had not been his fault, and that she would be forever grateful for his quick and brave action to carry her to safety. The pair were inseparable from that moment on, and as soon as they were of age, they had been wed. They lived happily together until Marcus entered the army, and even then, Ekaterini never complained of his time away, never tried to corral his adventurous spirit, instead tending to the upkeep of their modest home. As Marcus was able he returned home to stay with her, with the young couple endeavoring to produce a child, but it would be some years until they were successful. Marcus was away in Pannonia on campaign when he received the joyous news of their success, serving as Tribunus Laticlavius for the VIth Legion, and given the timing of the war effort, he unfortunately would be unable to return to her before the child was born. Marcus sent word to his mother, who returned back to Rome after all her years away in order to be with and care for Ekaterini during the later stages of her pregnancy.

On the eve of battle Marcus received a tragic missive from his mother. Disaster had struck. Well into her pregnancy, due to give birth in a short few months, Ekaterini had suddenly and mysteriously fallen ill. She collapsed one night, after dinner, and began bleeding from her feminine parts...a flow that could not be staunched before she passed on to the next realm, and along with her, their unborn child. A young woman he had been introduced to before leaving on campaign reached out to him by letter, offering her condolences after the news of the passing of his wife and their child met her ear. He wrote back to her, desperate for solace from any source he could find, and they struck up a quick and easy friendship. Upon returning to Rome the next year, this young woman, a Patrician and the daughter of a wealthy and influential father, helped Marcus in his successful effort to be elected to the office of Quaestor by wielding that influence to his benefit. She seduced him, one night after dinner while Marcus was deep in his cups, and in bed later that night, the scent of coitus still fresh in air, she proposed a marriage of convenience. She knew he didn’t love her, and understood he still suffered under the burden of loss, but he needed weight behind his name should he desire to rise further in station, and in turn she needed a capable husband through which to wield her influence. A win-win scenario for the both of them.

How could I not have seen it, back then...the timing of her letter...her half-hearted condolences.

The face of his second wife entered into the forefront of his mind's eye as thought of her summoned it forth. Beautiful in shape and form, like Venus reborn...but there, in her eye, that evil glint, and on her lips, what looks to the unwitting observer to be a casual, if not forced, smile. If one were the insightful sort, or particularly familiar with her ways, one could see the mischievous twist at the corner, as if she were looking upon her latest victim moments before she passed a blade through their heart.

As he gazed inwardly at her face, he didn’t simply look upon the face of an ex wife or a former lover...no, such a face might be more easily forgotten. Rather, he looked upon the face of the woman who had murdered Ekaterini, and with her, his unborn child, all those years ago.

Drusilla…

Marcus blinked forcefully, banishing the memory from his stream of consciousness. He could hardly think of the past without...her...face interjecting. It was maddening, to say the least.

Marcus turned his thoughts towards a more cheerful subject, back to the present, to the beautiful young woman who was currently examining his genitalia.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Who had time for love when the sun was warm and bright, when the wind carried the scent of thyme in bloom and the buzz of fat, contented bees? Those were her favorite days, full of the splendor of the natural world around her. There were rocks to look under, logs to roll over, animals to chase after and tend. Waking every morning before the sun, slipping out when night’s chilly breath still caressed the open fields, whispering encouragement to the greens, to the fat golden pearls of wheat, gossiping with the birds, telling the bees in the hives of the goings on of the villa, marveling at the fluttering colors of butterflies. All of it had been her domain as a child - running until her legs gave way, tumbling to the earth alive with gods.

Who had time for childish infatuations when she couldn’t be caught, when she swung a fist as hard as the boys that teased her, could wrestle them to the ground as she steeled herself with those thighs? Running home from fights with grass in her braids, scraped elbows and knees, not even caring at how mad her mother would be, knowing that even as her father scolded her, there would be a smile tucked away in his beard, a secret between the two of them. Back then, she was close to Magnus as only an obnoxious younger sister could be, toddling after him once Lucius had left home, eager to see what he saw, learn what he learned.

Turned out she was a better goatherd than he was. But it didn’t matter; they made up all sorts of games as they went out with the shepherds, made up their own language to talk to the plants to ensure a good harvest, and every year when there was a bounty that was the envy of Egypt, they’d look at each other and smile, her gap-toothed and wide, his shy as always, driven into bashfulness by the confidence of Lucius. He’d been much older then, already out of the house. But every time that he came home, it was cause for celebration, for he always had new stories and new things to show her, from boxing to a new wrestling move.

And for those young, heady days, when there was no difference between her and the boys, her life had been one long shining moment, when she never even so much doubted that she was favored by Diana. Who else could have given her such swiftness of feet, such stealth that she was able to once creep up within a hand’s distance to a doe and her fawn? And her help was cheered in the farm lands; she was a regular at the harvest time, with her own little basket and scythe, childish voice raised with those of the servants as they sang to lighten their work. After all, her father was out there too, him and his big floppy hat, her mother a silk shadow appearing from the corners of the villa to observe, think of some amusement, and then back into the depths of the home. Her sisters, too, had been wraiths of the household, concerned with weaving and the endless drudgery, content never to see the sun.

But one morning she’d awoken to blood in her subligaculum and terrible cramps. And like those rare times when the moon passed in front of the sun and plunged the world into a temporary night, her world went dark. But there was no promise of a day at the end of it.

She was no longer allowed in the fields, no longer welcome with Magnus among the animals and the greenery. Running and jumping and exploring were out of the question. She was hauled from the bosom of her world and thrust into the recesses of the house. Then nothing she did was right. Her weaving was tangled. She didn’t have a head for sums, no eye for the quality of jewelry. Didn’t know the most recent styles, and didn’t care to. And cosmetics? Ha! While her sisters sat every night preening, plucking, shaving, Gaia could barely muster the patience to sit for the hours that it took for Natta to braid her hair, and then, once the braiding was done, could barely stop her eyes from watering with how tight they were, how sore her scalp was. And then hair! Not just on her head, but under her arms, her legs, her sex - hair that was apparently unsightly - a new thing to be worried about. Her chest swelled, breasts started to develop. First they were barely there, then they weren't enough, then they were too much too soon, heavy and pulling her shoulders forward, causing her aches and pains if she didn't sit just so. Hair on her body, odors under her armpits, flaws in her complexion, a well-fed stomach that would be the cause of mockery and made her every meal come under intense, silent scrutiny.

Agrippina had always been the quieter, more docile of the three sisters: the perfect bride. The unearthly beauty of their mother had been transmuted in this second vessel of flesh, but the personality had not - there was no sharp edge to advise those to approach with caution, no feeling of reverence like they’d stepped into a sacred and hidden space. No, Agrippina with the irresistible shy smile: the one that had all of the suitors that came to call, some absolutely sick with love that they were on the verge of fainting just to catch the intangible fingers of her perfume. It got to the point that Agrippina, when allowed out of the house, had to be covered from head to toe, and even then, it was said that just a look from those dark eyes of hers was enough to cast a spell of love on the most hardened of hearts. To Gaia, it all looked foolish: there was something inherently silly about the tears of men, about the…feelings, she supposed, that they poured into secret missives, into long stanzas of poems only meant for Agrippina's eyes, dutifully passed by household servants who seemed to rather enjoy it, the newest ripple of excitement in the house. Agrippina was the honored lady, after all - Gaia was too much of the puppy-ish, youngest child to be considered a woman, even as her monthly bleeding sealed her fate. So it went with Agrippina - she was out of the house while Gaia was still trying to figure out the most rudimentary of embroidery, how to get the bread dough to rise.

Cassia had been different - her upturned nose had lowered once Gaia started to bleed, and her tormenting began in earnest, making up for lost time. If Agrippina had been the goddess sister on a cold and distant star, content to only watch, Cassia was every monstrous voice from the bowels of the earth, a creature that knew no mercy or pity.

“Look at fat Gaia; more piglet than girl!"

“It’s a shame that the midwife dropped you on your face once you were born; you could have been pretty."

“Are you honestly wearing that stolla? That color is hideous on you."

“Look at you, come of age and nary a single man to marry you - perhaps you would be better off on the island of Lesbos - plenty of clams for you to lick the salt from.”

“Haha! Who applied your cosmetics? A blind woman?”

“My gods, when was the last time that you bathed? You smell like the horse boy. Maybe he’ll give you a kiss if you beg him.”

“Poor mother and father; going to be stuck with you for the rest of their lives, their biggest mistake never leaving home!”

When the teasing got to be too much, Gaia had responded as she'd learned - with raised hands. For someone who hadn’t been trained by Lucius in the art of boxing, Cassia fought like a wildcat, with teeth and nails and kicking, despite the advantage of size that she had over her youngest sibling. And when the fights would inevitably be broken up, Gaia sniffling and nursing her hurts (the worst having been a bloodied nose), Octavia would scold her.

“A lady doesn’t raise her fists like a barbarian,” she would hiss, cold as always, “No matter how nasty the words are.”

“I hope you knock her out one day,” would quip Lucius on one of his trips home, getting caught up as his sister poured out all of her hurts, real and imagined. He had been so perfect; so shining. He always knew what to say, always knew how to sneak her out to do the things she’d so loved as a girl. It was he that also taught her to ride, a great secret between the two of them, being sworn by the most precious of vows - a linking of pinkies, a spit, a wink, and a vow that if they ever told, that the Furies themselves would descent and tear their tongues out; imps from Hades poke out their eyes with embers, and their souls torn from their bodies to wander eternally. Only the most ferocious, the most violent of oaths, for the best kept secrets. But occasionally he would ask:

“Is there no one that sets your heart aflame, my fig dumpling?” Light and teasing as always, no right or wrong answer. And she would always duck her head, feeling the heat in her cheeks.

“No one but you,” laughter all around, hugs, kisses. His calloused hands across her back as he pulled her tight, squeezing her till she coughed and lifting her off the ground like she weighed nothing.

With the blessing of her goddess and the love of her brother, what else did she need? He accepted her for all that she was, her sun, her warmth, her light. When he went away, the world was cold and dark again; an unending winter.

She’d watch the animals in the spring, the bleating of randy goats, the strange capers they went through as they rutted. Watched the bloody births, heard the cows lowing in pain as they dropped their calves, their large eyes weary, impassive bulls bellowing at their next mate. Saw some of the servants loiter in darkened corners, heard their light laughter. Then sometimes there were tears and swollen bellies, dismissals and long rumors of shame and of lost virtue, even among slaves: her father was determined to run a household beyond reproach. It was all a world she watched from a different plane, like laying on the banks of a river and watching the fish swim beneath the water. She could appreciate it from afar, be somewhat curious - but otherwise not think of it at all. It was only at Cassia’s venomous words that she began to worry that something may have been wrong with her - even the lowest of beasts felt…that urge. Needed companionship. If she dwelled on it, she could force that pang into being in her chest, but if she was honest with herself - so hard to do, the older she got - she could admit that the pang was false: that she really and truly didn’t care. Didn’t feel that she was missing out on anything in particular.

And now, her folly was all too clear. Courage had loosened her tongue, but shame and training forcibly pulled back her innate curiosity, the wonder she held at the most mundane workings of the world. “A lazy girl,” Cassia would snarl, to which Lucius would snap back, “A daydreamer and touched by a Goddess: would that we all could be so lucky.”

Marcus's touch had been a part of that daydream, the part of her that could have dwelled on the clouds for the rest of her life. As her words wound down, taking her waning courage rapidly with it, she realized what she’d asked.

I’m a fool.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” she said, quickly, embarrassed. “Forgive me.” All too aware that she was naked, she fished for her linen night stolla, and finding it, quickly pulled it overhead.

I shouldn’t have stared at his sex so. I shouldn’t have said all that I did.

She moved to the edge of the bed, swinging her legs over it to stand.

But I’ve said it and there’s no taking it back. It’s going to forever be etched into the air between us, and it will always be a joke to him. I’m nothing; a foolish girl, made all the more foolish for the bit of pleasure that he gave me. I’m no better than those slaves that left the house in shame after they chased after that flicker of joy.

Her fingers tightened on the side of the bed as she felt her eyes began to burn with unshed tears.

But what a flicker of joy it was. I could spend an eternity locked with him like that. It was a blessing - and to him, it’s just nothing. It is nothing; another woman in his bed. But to me it moved my world.

Clenched the edge of the mattress, feeling the hay and the flocking rise up to poke into her fingers. So tightly that she reopened a few of her scratches, dotting the sheets with more of her blood.

It’s a new day - and you need to eat and you need to rest. You’re a proper wife now: best to act like one.

She stood up, resolute in her posture even if her heart didn’t follow it. Paced around the bed to be on the opposite side of him. “You don’t seem to have a fever,” simply enough, with the quiet desperation of wanting to change the subject, to shove the djinn back into the lamp, “How is your arm feeling? It’s been a while since the bandage has changed; I can do that, or I could call for one of the servants. After…” A press of the tongue to the roof of her mouth, before plunging ahead, “After what happened on the way here, I dismissed as many as I could, including your man…I’m sorry, I didn’t get his name. He had a wound to his shoulder, and would have insisted on keeping working, but I told him to eat and get rest with everyone else that had accompanied us. It may be an inconvenience to work with a smaller amount of people here, but I felt that under the current circumstances that it would be best. The two men that were part of the…attack,” trouble on that word, the undercurrent of fear there, “were apprehended, and Manius is taking them back to Rome. He stated that he would be back as soon as he could, within a few days, but that he could be gone a week.”

What a change in her voice - from the shy, curious creature that was eager to experience more of the flesh to a confident scout, reporting. A firmness that suggested less a matron, and more of an experienced soldier: her brother had taught her well. For her part, as frightening as the raid had been, she reached down into her stomach for courage, the pure, wondrous courage that came from physical action, from speaking word into truth. An underpinning of steel within her - and who could have expected any less, from the woman who had born such torments from the hands of her very own family and learned not to react rashly?

“He was to send word to Tiberius Attius as well; the feeling I got from Manius is that this man is a trusted friend of yours.”

There was more she was itching to say - her tongue a knife, wanting to pry every potential secret, every enemy, out of him. Her family had no enemies; at least, none that would be so brazen as to attack a wedding caravan. Though there was no mention of Marcus’s long history within her earshot, but it would have been a fool that wouldn’t have considered that he’d angered enough people for someone to want to attack. Chalk it up to too much time spent around her Lucius when he was at home: her mind didn’t seem to twist to the concerns of women.

“I had considered sending word to my brother Lucius as well, but for the time being, I don’t think that it would be the wisest course of action. Too many cooks spoil the broth, and in this situation…I would prefer to have as few people here as possible. People that you know and trust. And I fear that bringing my brother in and informing him of the circumstances would lead to…disagreement.” The word was said lightly, but it was nearly leaden with the weight that it carried. She had no doubt in her mind that Lucius would charge in, run everyone through that even so much as looked at him askance, and would have taken Marcus to task and then some.

While the thought was enough to make her want to laugh - anything to soothe the beginnings of a broken heart -, it wasn’t the wisest one. And she had not made her sacrifice just for her own blood to murder her husband. In deference, she folded her hands primly in front of her, her palms resting against her linen night dress, smearing small streaks of rust colored blood across it. “Forgive me if I overstepped any of my bounds; you were incapacitated, and I acted to what I felt would be our best interests.” A lowering of the head, apologizing to a general rather than a wife to her husband. If her laughter had been spring grass, this was the onset of another winter storm. Matter of fact, detached. Seemingly content to stay in a realm to herself. “My concern is still now the tending of your wound; to ensure that there’s no foulness that gathers there.” Nothing was spoken of her own wounds, of the bandage wrapped round her left arm or those on her feet.

 

[Talon]

And just like that she’s gone again...

Marcus sighed as he sat up, as it was made perfectly clear through her actions that the moment had passed. Passed, perhaps never to return, at this rate. There were only so many tonal shifts one could endure in their relationship before their capacity to overlook them would run out, and at least by Marcus’ reckoning, that point for him was rapidly approaching. It felt like someone had unceremoniously dumped an ice cold bucket of water down his back, harshly extinguishing the bright flame that had burned at his core only moments prior, the sensation vivid enough to send a chill down his spine.

This woman’s behavior is...utterly perplexing and outrageously maddening. I want nothing more than to bask here in the morning sun with her, whisper sweet nothings in her ear and tell her of how my heart aches for her touch. But can she allow that? No...she casts her eyes downward like I’ve taken the back of my hand to her face. Can she not just allow me to love her freely? Must everything be a struggle? Must every intimate encounter end in heartbreak?

Marcus pulled himself to the edge of the bed and let his feet hit the floor, resting with them there a moment as if to stabilize himself, to gather the strength and confidence needed to ensure he wouldn’t stumble when he stood. It wouldn’t do to show weakness now, not with the tension rising between them once more. Marcus’ left hand rested against his thigh as his right hand slapped over his eyes forcefully, audibly, his hand roughly scrubbing across forehead and nose as he emitted a ragged sigh, a tangle of emotions caught up in the emission, part anger, part frustration, part disbelief.

She speaks to me as if to a stranger, or a superior...as if the past few moments hadn’t happened at all. Was I this difficult when I was young? By the gods…she’s not that young. I’ll not play this game any longer, I’m a Senator of Rome for Jupiter’s sake. If this woman doesn’t want to be loved, or at the very least least loved by me, I suppose there is nothing to be done about it. I’ll not bind her in chains and force her to accept it. I have my marriage, the conditions of Augustus’ decree have been met, as such there is little more to be concerned with.

“‘Overstepped any of your bounds?’” Marcus scoffed as he quoted her, his tone clearly conveying his newfound sense of exasperation, his voice so low it almost passed under his breath. Apparently he had missed the conversation where he had outlined clearly defined boundaries and expectations of how she would conduct herself, and since that time, she had been chafing against them, eager to be freed from both her invisible bonds and the clutches of her captor.

So all that nonsense about love and falling from mountains and enjoying the sex had been what, little more than honeyed words designed to enthrall me? Did her mother or one of her sisters coach her to say all that with the hope that it would endear her to me? Well…it worked, at least in the moment, only they forgot to tell her to maintain the facade for more than a few minutes afterwards. Or maybe this one really is mad, as she said, perhaps I should take her word for it, she can see inside her own head, afterall...

“Your concern is noted, but I think no longer necessary, as it would appear that I am on the other side of whatever affliction I was stricken with. You have my thanks for keeping vigilant watch, surely Mikkos has sent for a physician to attend us should further symptoms manifest. After all, I wouldn’t want to burden you with the task of looking after a man who you can hardly stand to be alone in the same room with any longer than strictly needed.” Marcus stood, gingerly, testing his weight against shaky knees, joints that still ached with the memory of the effects of whatever malady had sickened him. His tone carried with it a note of resignation, as if he had given up the fight, either too tired physically or too aged mentally to desire further sparring with her emotionally. “And it sounds like you did well, wife, as well as could be expected of you under the circumstances. I’m sure your father would be most proud.” The word “wife” was enunciated with the sharp emphasis of a title or rank, just as he would say “Centurion” or “Legionary”, heavier and colder than a term of endearment would be.

Marcus turned around to face the bed, still nude and seemingly unconcerned with the potential of making her uncomfortable by being so, bending down to unceremoniously seize a fistful of the sheet that covered it, he forcefully pulled it free from where it had been tucked beneath the mattress.

“It is probably for the best that you did not send for your brother…” Marcus yanked at the sheet, the mattress rising up near the head of the bed, falling back with a thud, now canted slightly, jostled off alignment by the force of his actions. “...if I find myself in need of more soldiers, it is well within my power to procure them.” Marcus forcefully tugged the sheet again, the mattress contorting as it pulled up, partially folding back over itself, angling enough that it no longer trapped the sheet beneath it with its weight, Marcus moving back a few steps as the sheets gave way, sliding across the bed, carrying with them the stains of their coupling, the proof of consummation.

That’s just what I need in this moment, a family member to take her side, to double my torment, to come to me, on her behalf, assuring me of how, in spite of the way she acts, she’s really a warm person once you get to know her. Warmth...hah!

“Besides, you need no longer burden yourself with concern for our security, I will see to it, as is proper.” Marcus gathered the now loose sheet in his hands, balling it up roughly to toss it towards the entrance to the room. Marcus considered the cast aside sheet a moment before shifting his gaze towards Gaia. His dark eyes were as cold as steel and twice as sharp, the unblinking gaze of a stone cold killer juxtaposed with the nude form of a man who had just shared a joyous coupling with a new lover. She couldn’t be sure exactly which aspect he was more inclined toward in that moment. There was no anger in his eyes though, no burning rage shining there, fixed instead in more of an inquisitorial look, as if he were trying to take her measure, as if she were no more than a stranger to him.

Marcus dropped his eyes from her as he moved about the sector of the room that he believed his tunic had been discarded to, looking about for it along the floor and about the furniture. “I think that I will rest a few days until I am once more fit for travel...once Manius has returned with his contingent of guardsmen I will likely make the journey back to the city.” Marcus located his garment, down by the floor, half curled around some decorative floor vase. “Hardly have I drawn breath here and yet already I grow tired of it. Clearly it was foolish of me to think it would be the ideal setting in which to foster and grow a relationship with my new wife.” He said it matter of factly, as if an observation given offhand to a servant. Marcus bent down to retrieve his tunic, cautiously, a hand against the wall to steady himself, before rising up to his full height once he had secured it in hand. “I beg forgiveness for my impudence, wife, I will endeavor not to make such rash judgements in the future.”

“Besides, if I am the true target of this group, or groups, you might be safer if they know we live separately.” Or more vulnerable, Marcus thought, but he held his tongue. The point was to be kept apart, the excuse was just that, little more than a fabrication of convenience. Besides, once Manius returned with the additional guardsmen, this place could be defended quite easily and would make a fine fortified position. He didn’t wish her harm, quite the opposite, but in the moment he could think of no other excuse to be apart. To the outside observer, should any hear of their parting, it could be easily explained that his young wife preferred the luxury setting of a seaside villa while he, her husband, would have to return to the city to see to his political obligations. Perfectly acceptable, socially.

“Perhaps your brother can come and stay with you here, then, after I depart. It would do you good to be in the company of those you love in a time such as this. Or not...whatever you wish. Who you spend your time in the company of should be beneath my concern, afterall.” He stood there a moment, stilled, his head spinning, hand still braced against the wall, leaning heavily against it, his soiled tunic clutched in the other.

Not now, just a few moments longer…steady...

Marcus managed to don the tunic over his head cleanly, albeit somewhat clumsily, and he brushed open hands down the front of it in the absentminded habit of straightening it after it had been pulled down. The tunic itself was filthy, discolored along the left side of his chest where runoff from his wound had dried to a deep red, almost black against what once was a royal blue background. He wore it like fine armor, the sort a man would wear to a Tribute in his honor.

Marcus turned to face her, drawing to his full height, faltering, pressing the palm of his outstretched hand once more into the wall to brace himself. “You know...in all my years I’ve never encountered anyone or thing, man, woman, or beast, as vexing as you. It would seem you continue to insist on playing the part of wife to a cold and thoughtless husband…” Marcus’ head turned away, scoffing at the notion, a humorless smile on his lips as he looked back at her. “...and while that’s not the role I had envisioned for myself, it seems as if I am destined to play it out by your reckoning. If apathy is the only response you can muster to my offerings of affection...if how we laid together just now truly meant so little to you that it passes from your memory so freely...well, then...I suppose it is time to reconsider the nature of this marriage.” Marcus turned away from her, took a few steps, paused, and still facing away, shoulders slumped in defeat, he offered. “Or maybe you’re right...maybe I am all the things you seem to think I am, clearly, if nothing else, I was a fool to think things could be different between us...”

Marcus moved, a steady gait but casually paced, carefully measured as if to ensure he would not falter, crossing the room towards the exit, stopping a moment to cautiously bend and gather the sheet that his throw had deposited there. He looked back at her then, at the fresh blood on her stola, pausing a few breaths, a momentary chink showing in his armor as his brow raised in concern, his gaze fixed on her injuries, unblinking. “I will tell Mikkos to fetch a physician if he hasn’t already…good day to you, Gaia Africana, I sincerely hope it ends more pleasantly than it began…”

And with that Marcus turned finally, not waiting for her response if there was any forthcoming, and made his exit as steadily as his legs would carry him.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

He was lucky that he was wounded - otherwise Gaia would have thought of absolutely nothing of marching over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and tossing him to the ground as she had wrestled in her youth. Pin him with her legs and throttle him. She was sure that even despite his height and strength, she’d be able to get in at least one or two good licks before he threw her off. And then he’d have to catch her, and good luck with that. If she had been a creature of myth, her rage would have equalled to smoke pouring from her nostrils, licks of flame at the corner of her mouth, a dangerous creature provoked into attacking.

But as it was, Gaia was merely human, and, though it was a monumental effort, she packed her rage down, deep, deeper, deepest into the core of her stomach, to be released at a later time.

A lady doesn’t raise her fists like a barbarian, no matter how nasty the words are.

“‘Overstepped,’” her words deceptively cool, though a blind man would miss that fire of anger in her eyes, the flush of her cheeks, the flare of her nostrils, “husband,” the word was forced out of her mouth, sharp as a razor, matching his own chill, “in the sense that I was not sure what your wishes may have been. My understanding of the matter is that in a marriage, decisions of such a nature should be discussed appropriately, if not automatically deferring to a husband’s choice.” If he was looking for her to be snide about her words, she was not - to her, the husband was the head of the household - and, in an ideal marriage, a wife may have the opportunity to add her input. Her anger now was at his assumption, again, that she would barge into his own household and order his servants like his words didn’t matter. But the anger enough wasn’t enough to cover up the deep wounds he’d inflicted on her heart, yet again, and even through her anger, she could feel tears gathering under her eyelids.

He is an utterly impossible man. Impossible! And here I was, foolish enough to think that…well, nevermind what I thought. What would he have of me, to be love-sick and foolish, to leave myself open to him, continually, to keep bearing the wounds of love with nothing more but a simple smile? I should have never spoken so freely; nothing good has ever come of me doing so. And he’s no Lucius; no one that I could truly be free to be myself around. This is my mistake, and though it hurts now, I have to ensure that I am the proper wife moving forward. I must be true to myself, and I must protect him to my dying day, as I vowed to the Gods. And nothing he can say or do will make me go back on that.

The words of her mother, though she repeated to herself over and over, trying desperately to quell the volcanic torrent of anger in her, were completely wiped away - eradicated by the deep, deep hurt that came from his next words:

“After all, I wouldn’t want to burden you with the task of looking after a man who you can hardly stand to be alone in the same room with any longer than strictly needed,” he'd said, colder than the darkest day in winter.

He has no idea. He has not the slightest idea of the hell I have gone through to ensure that he lives, that he draws breath. No idea of what I have given up, have sworn to continue to give up, so that he remains healthy and whole, here with me.

She ran a hand over her bald scalp, tacky with sweat, still faintly oily from the night before. It would appear to be a gesture similar to his wiping his face with his hand, of trying to dispel anger. In her case, it was a reminder to what she had done; what she would continue to do. Her face contorted, hard and ugly, before she took in a deep breath. He was stumbling now, stripping the sheets from the bed, and her heart ached. She wanted to run to his side, to help him stand, all rage and misunderstanding aside, to be as gentle as she wanted to be, but he was hard now, and wouldn’t allow for any tenderness from her.

It will do me no good to yell at him, to fight him. I made my promise, my sacrifice, in good faith. And so I will keep it that way. Goddess, for I know not whom to ask for help - please help me through this.

“I think that I will rest a few days until I am once more fit for travel...once Manius has returned with his contingent of guardsmen I will likely make the journey back to the city," he'd continued, his words felt to be dripping with disdain.

So he’s like any man once he’s had a taste of virgin flesh. I was such a fool; so, so silly to think that it may have been otherwise. He doesn’t want to be around me; doesn't even care for my own safety. He thinks that's due to his men that we're here, like what happened meant absolutely nothing! He wanted me long enough to see that he’s done his duty and that I’m with child. And to think, not that long ago, I was begging, dreaming, of having something of his, should anything had happened to him, because I was so blinded by love that I couldn’t stand to be parted from him. Venus, do all women go through such pain? How do they bear it? Is this what it means to have a love in your life? Would that I could have stayed ignorant of it all!

Each word of his was a new twisting of that knife he’d plunged into her breast, each word pulling her deeper and deeper back into herself that she felt little more than a waxen doll, fixed to the spot as he spoke, not trusting herself to say a word. But when he looked into her eyes, he would see that hers met his calmly, faintly inquisitive, as much as look at a stranger as he looked at her, her face impassive. The flicker of anger was extinguished, leaving her gaze deceptively empty. A truly marvelous feat, considering how she was going to pieces on the inside, how all she wanted to do was kick, hit, kiss, hold - too much, not enough. What could get through to this man?

“You know...in all my years I’ve never encountered anyone or thing, man, woman, or beast, as vexing as you," his anger seemed to be waning now, but it was no less sharp, no less painful.

What was it about that line that freed her tongue? That let her anger blaze to the surface again, for her to throw aside that shell that she had tried so hard to draw herself back into? Even she didn’t know.

“The same could be said for you. I know of donkeys far more agreeable,” she snapped. I’ve made the mistake of being open to him more than once, and I will not make it again.

For all the good her response had done her; he’d already departed. And in good time - with him gone, there would be no one that she would have to check her temper against. Without a second thought, she picked up the same decorative floor vase that he’d nearly stumbled over, and hurled it against the wall with all the strength that she possessed.


______


The problem with breaking things was that one always had to clean up afterwards.

And so she had, adding new cuts to her palms as she collected the broken bits of pottery as best she could. She’d thrown it with such force that the parts that hadn’t instantly turned to a fine red powder were particularly sharp and jagged, more like obsidian than clay. Even as she worked, using language that would have made a seasoned sailor blush, her anger still ran round and round her stomach. She couldn’t decide who she was angrier at - herself, him, the Goddess Venus, her parents, the Fates, the world.

In the end, she decided that being angriest at herself, and then Venus, and then all else, with Marcus being somewhere at the bottom (he would be above the pot for cutting her hands, but below the world for existing) was probably the most acceptable of orders. Life had been so much simpler when she was a child and ignorant of what was expected of women - and simpler still before she’d lost her virginity, when she had, for those few beautiful moments, had been on the level of the gods themselves, happy with herself, with him, with all else that went on in the world.

The last bit of clay gathered into her now well-stained and torn night stolla, she sighed.

I can’t stop him if he wants to leave. And maybe distance would be a good thing; he didn’t marry me out of actual interest, after all. He’s not at all like Agrippina’s husband, who nearly sobbed when she accepted his proposal and said he’d kiss the ground she walked on. Even Cassia’s husband was more enamored of her, despite her venom, than Marcus is of me. With him gone, I could perhaps live a life closer to how things used to be for me. Arethusa will be here soon enough; she’s more like a sister than a servant, so I won’t be entirely alone.

And while he’s gone, I can saddle Tenebris, clean out this villa of all its valuables, and ride off into the wilderness. It’s perfect, really. I could have my new family of wolves in a fortnight.

The thought was both so absurd and welcome that she actually laughed - once, twice, then, a belly laugh as she continued to think of herself living with the wolves, jumping on a buck with her bare hands and feet and trying to bite its throat open. She laughed until she unceremoniously dropped to her rear from her crouched position, tears freely coming to her eyes as the thought continued: bringing down prey with her new family, playing with the pups, howling at the moon with them.

When her laughter finally abated, she kept smiling, her dimples carved deeply into her cheeks, as she wiped at her eyes. “Oh, Diana, I needed that,” her words on the edge of yet another sigh.

So this is the situation I find myself in. What a life it is that I lead. And what a dark forest I find myself in. Well - I’ll have to have faith. He’ll soon drown his feelings in the loins of a much more agreeable woman, I’m sure, and I’ve got to find my way out and away from this pain in my chest. It will take time, as the stories say, but if I find something to do, it’ll make the time go quicker.

So she did.

A quick bath later, she left the shared room for the servants to clean the soiled bedding.

The night before, while she was tending to Marcus’s wound and seeing that he was seated in the bed comfortably, the servants had unloaded as much of the caravan as they could, meaning that Gaia had other clothing available to her, among which was her old night-stolla. Now, after bathing, and knowing that he would want nothing to do with her (something that still stung, but became easier to bear as she kept her next activity in mind), she crept her way through the villa with all of the stealth of a thief in the dead of night. It wouldn’t do for someone to see her now; not with how she was dressed. In her familiar worn olive green toga, belted at her waist with supple brown leather, the length left her far more exposed than any woman of her station should be. The toga ended mid-thigh, exposing the length of her lean and muscular legs, the fine definition of her thighs. Instead of feminine sandals, laced to the ankle, she wore the high laced sandals of the huntress of myth, arching up to her knees and fastened securely through intricate lacing. Her feet still hurt, but it was something that she could deal with.

In her time of cleaning up her mess, she had time to think. Time to drift away from anger and to more mundane, practical things. Like a particular bow and quiver that had been tucked away in her items, wrapped carefully in sheepskin and tied with old cord. She had a sneaking suspicion as to what it was, but was thrilled all the same when her exploration confirmed it:

Lucius had packed her bow and quiver - no doubt, slipped in when everyone else was distracted, him using that silver tongue of his to dispel any suspicion. She’d nearly sobbed at the sight of it, a much welcome and needed old friend. Trembling hands had traced the familiar curves of it, the wood carefully polished, the quiver new and of fine leather. And it was full of arrows - a note tied with red cord to one of them.

Hello, my precious fig dumpling -

I send these with love. And with the precaution not to use them against your new husband, no matter how tempting it might be.

With all my love to you, my heart,
Lucius

Slipping through the villa, she didn’t stop until she reached the stables. It had taken a bit of creeping, crouching behind decorative shrubs and trees, to find the stables - considering that she was in a completely new place and hardly knew which way was up. And maybe a servant or two had thought they’d seen a bald woman with a bow and quiver, but maybe it had been a trick of the light, because how completely and utterly odd and improbable, but after some twists and turns, she was there at the stables. There weren’t many horses there, but one was instantly familiar - and whinnied to her playfully.

“Hello, Tenebris - I hope you’re up for a ride...”

______

There could be no better way to explore the grounds than on a magnificent horse.

Tenebris rode as well as she remembered, if not better, and it had taken all of her will not to whoop wildly into the wind as she brought him to a full gallop. She hadn’t bothered with a saddle or bridle; she had to get out of the stables before she or Tenebris would be spotted, missed, and an alert risen - though she figured that Marcus would be more concerned about the horse vanishing than her. No matter - Tenebris’s mane was long enough to allow her to grip it easily, and he was well-trained enough to respond to the slightest change in her grip, making it seem that he could read her mind. And though her sex would throb to the point that she could barely walk when she finally dismounted, her thighs had been enough to keep her secure enough to take him to a gallop.

Now, she was content to walk side by side with the horse, him trotting alongside her as a dog would follow his master. “You know,” she started, smiling, “Until Arethusa gets here, I think you’ll be the only being I can confide in. What do you think of that?”

He looked over at her, before stopping to breathe in her face. She laughed and stroked his nose, tangling her fingers in his mane. “Well, you’re certainly more agreeable than my husband. What a trying word, that, ‘husband.’ Everything still feels like a bad dream.”

Her steps slowed. She had no idea how she was still awake; between the raid and the fevered breaking of her maidenhood, she thought she would be able to sleep for days. As it was, she was still awake, her body tense and humming, though she’d tried her best to calm it down. She’d ridden until her sex couldn’t take the friction anymore - past verdant and carefully trimmed grounds, past the high rises of villas in the distance. They were quite isolated, but not - she suspected that many acres separated them from their nearest neighbors. For as much land that there was cultivated around the villa, there was much that was like the field she was in now - left to grow wild and unchecked, knee high grass to whip against the legs, so rarely traveled that occasional flocks of ground nesting birds would take to the air with harried cries at their approach.

Tenebris, content to walk freely as he was to be ridden, seemed to be as interested in inspecting the grounds as much as she had. She’d been all too eager to find as many secret places as she could, places that she could set up a target, have an escape. At first she humored going down to the ocean, but it seemed too treacherous for her to involve Tenebris with - so to the land she stayed, though the ocean called to her, pulled at her core as much as the sun warmed her skin. Wandering without the sight of another human in hours had done her well - when she’d run out of angry words, out of frustration, she was allowed to just be, to tap into the earth that had given her and her family so much to be thankful for.

“I’m going to have to learn to ride and shoot at the same time,” her words were startlingly loud against the late afternoon hum of the world, “I can only shoot accurately when I’m standing still…and I don’t like the thought of being caught like that again.” With Tenebris, she knew she didn’t have to elaborate, didn’t have to explain anything. “Going to have to figure out how to set up targets out here. Bit by bit, not to be caught - but if that husband,” easier to say his title than his name; that still hurt too much, “Is going to be leaving, I may be able to do it in one trip instead of a bunch of little ones. And I’m sure you’ll help me, won’t you?”

Tenebris wickered.

Ant beds were stepped over, the occasional animal track noted: boar, snake, stoat. Once, she’d just stopped and laid into the grass, leaving Tenebris to graze at will, folding her arms behind her back to watch the clouds pass by in the sky. It was so amazing, that field of blue that stretched endlessly above her. Her life had changed so drastically in the past few days, enough so that the natural order of things felt that it should have been upended, and yet - had the dawn not come, was the day not warm and beautiful and that sky, going on into eternity, still there?

I could watch this for hours…

Sleep found her at some point, though she knew not when. One moment the sky was above her, high and clear blue, the next, the sun had sunk lower than it had been a few moments ago. She'd awoken with a start, Tenebris sniffing at her face. Her sleep had been deep, dreamless: her body finally giving over to fatigue. It was the sort of sleep on the heels of such desperate activity that only seemed to heighten how tired she actually was, rather than prove restful.

As she rolled over into the grass, she moved to her stomach, watching a small trail of ants wind their way through the dirt. Rolled back to her back, her arms behind her head, and, with a sigh, continued to watch the sky.
____

When the sun began to dip into the horizon, threatening to vanish into the sea, bursting with gold and deeply orange rays, she began her trek back to the villa. Along the way, she’d shot a rabbit - an old one, she noted, and possibly addled in the mind, as it had reluctantly moved each time an arrow went wide around it, as if it couldn't be bothered. Without her target set up, and the fear still nestled in her stomach as she thought of the caravan, she’d shot, sitting still astride Tenebris. It had taken several attempts for her to land it - but the fact that she did, with one arrow left in the quiver, gave her a bit of encouragement. With her arm still bandaged, there was no additional injury there, the bandage serving as an arm guard.

Still - a lucky find. Thank you, Diana - you know my heart.

Taking the time to collect all of her spent arrows - so many of them! - had taken longer than she anticipated, and it was in a mad gallop that she was headed home, as quickly as she could manage, juggling the rabbit and the arrows and the mane and her sore sex. The hush of evening was well over the villa by the time she made it back, and it was hurried that she rushed back the shared room - to bathe off the worst of the sweat and dirt, to apply her favorite perfume and stolla in a pale yellow and fumble through shoving earrings into her ears and covering her bare head with the pulla. She didn't bother with painting her face, leaving it in its natural state: long lashes, clear skin, dark eyes whose whites still bore the pink of being tired. There was the slight, raw deep red of her teeth across the top of her lower lip, still healing from when she bit it in her concentration, but it would only be noticeable if someone was staring at her mouth, and could see past the natural difference in color; her upper lip was darker than the lower, a smooth, deeper brown in comparison to the pink of the lower.

In her haste, she’d completely forgotten about the rabbit, and was half-way down the hallway before she remembered that she’d ungraciously left it in the middle of the bed. With wide eyes, she dashed down the hall, nearly tripping over the edge of her stolla, back to the room to collect it.

I found it outside, looks like an eagle dropped it, maybe I scared away a weasel, no, no, no! None of those excuses makes sense! Why would I be out in the open fields - I’m not at home; I’m supposed to be a good wife. What am I supposed to do with this? I can’t let it go to waste; that would shame Diana and the poor beast. There are no dogs here to give it to, maybe I could give it to one of the servants - AH, Marcus’s man! He saw me with the bow - which is a whole set of problems of its own, I know - but I could give it to him and tell him to have it for his dinner, but where would he be?

And so she stood in the hall, rapidly glancing back and forth, holding a very dead rabbit by its hind leg.