#Romulus thread | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

onyxstyx · 6 months ago

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ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ | emperor geta

pairing: emperor geta x fem!reader

summary: the fates spin the thread of destiny, and mortals have no choice but to follow its path. you have other plans.

➺‘the fates, who give men at their birth both evil and good to have, and they pursue the transgressions of men and gods… until they punish the sinner with a sore penalty’ - theogony, hesiod ➺‘whatever happens to you has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time’ - marcus aurelius

A/N: i watched gladiator ii, devoured all the geta fics i could find (ty writers for feeding me <3) and i’m still ravenous. the man is gnawing at me from my insides so i had no choice but to get typing. haven’t written for like a yr so bear with me. if this flops it never happened xx

warnings: mention of miscarriage (not reader's), period-typical misogyny, morally ambiguous reader bc she’s fighting for her life out here. she’s just a girl fr :( YOU try being a girlie in ancient rome :/ enjoy !!

w/c: 5.9k

latin translations: fatum - fate, carissima - dear, domina - my lady

As the moon ascends in wake of the sun’s descent, the gilded walls of the imperial palace glint softly in the moonlight. Glorious tapestries line these walls, each one telling the tale of hallowed heroes, of terrible tyrants and of revered rulers. The history of the Roman Empire.

Their patterns, depicting stories of both rise and ruin, are woven by none other than the three Fates. One Fate spins the thread, and an heir is born. Another Fate weaves it, and a battle is won. The last Fate cuts, and an emperor meets his end.

As three pairs of hands work nimbly in the heavens, another tapestry begets itself in the mortal realm, where our story takes place.

From a tender age, you had been taught to believe in fate.

Fatum.

You had first learnt the word as a little one.

You’d been a curious creature, like most children are. Sheltered from the terrors of the world, your appetite for life was insatiable. You’d wake up with a hunger for new knowledge about the world around you, and go to bed still hungry for more, no matter what had transpired during the day. Thus, you found it impossible to go to sleep of your own accord - you relied on your mother’s bedtime stories to satisfy your appetite, and lull you into slumber.

Perched by your bedside with a gentle hand stroking your hair, she regaled you with the tale of Rome’s beginnings. A tale of abandonment, wolf-mothers and fratricide. Enough thrill to tire you out, she hoped. To her chagrin, she looked down to find widened eyes, without a trace of sleep in them, staring up at her expectantly. Instead, your eyes shone bright with the excitement of unanswered questions.

She sighed fondly before prompting you to talk. “Yes, carissima?”

And so the floodgates opened. You fired her with questions with all the sternness of a Roman general, and she listened intently with all the patience of a loving mother.

Why did the king try to kill the babies? Why didn’t the wolf eat the babies?

And finally, taking great care to be gentle, you placed a tiny hand on her rounded belly and asked the most burning question. Why did Romulus kill his brother? Your innocent mind struggled to comprehend it. You hadn’t even met your little sibling yet, and you already couldn’t fathom the idea of bringing harm to him. Or her, you thought, but your father had insisted that all refer to the babe as the male heir he so desperately desired it to be.

“Fatum,” was the simple answer she supplied. “Without the king’s cruelty, without the wolf’s mercy, without Remus’ death, our great city would never have been built.”

Eyes shining with knowledge yet untold, her gaze held yours. “Whatever happens to you, has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time,” she quoted, a tone of finality in her voice.

As well-loved children do, you’d lapped up your mother’s answer as readily as the twin babes lapped the wolf’s milk.

You had first witnessed fatum some years later, at the age of twelve.

On the brink of adolescence, much about you had changed compared to the little girl having bedtime stories told to her. Much except one. Age hadn’t quelled your curiosity - if anything, it had grown.

You’d exhausted all the resources available to a girl of your standing. You’d read enough philosophical texts to debate with Aristotle himself, asked questions faster than your tutors could find answers and yet, you knew there was much more that the world had to offer. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

With age had also come a newfound deviance. Observant as you were, you’d learned that there was much to be gained with certain types of information - if you knew how to use it to your advantage.

As such, you’d taken to eavesdropping on your father’s meetings with his fellow senators from behind a pillar. For weeks on end, they had spoken of a play becoming popular amongst patricians and plebeians alike. Oedipus.

At the centre of their discussion was a ploy to ban the play from being performed. Abhorrent, they had called it. A threat to their authority, if the people are led to believe that even kings are subject to a thing as fickle as fate. At that statement, your eyes twinkled with mischief and a devious smile found its way to your face - you were determined to see this for yourself.

So, on the fateful night you caught your older cousin in the arms of a man bearing no resemblance to her betrothed, you knew you’d struck gold.

Desperate to protect her reputation and far too embarrassed to berate you for sleuthing around when you should have been asleep, she’d hastily agreed to the terms of your silence. She would sneak you into the city’s amphitheatre to watch the next production of Oedipus, if you swore to secrecy.

And so your plan commenced. Hidden under the large folds of her toga, you observed the story unfolding before you. The mighty king of Thebes brought to his knees by the tragic fate he’d tried to escape, to no avail.

A real spectacle, the performance elicited emotions from you that were both old and new. In a short two hours you’d been perplexed, horrified, scandalised. You’d learned quickly why you had to be sneaked in - fate wasn’t the only mature theme you were educated on that night.

But you only came to understand fatum when it took the person dearest to you, two summers ago.

Pregnant again, the fifth time that you could remember, your mother had taken ill. Perilously ill. After years of unsuccessful attempts to produce an heir - one daughter, two miscarriages and two stillbirths - she had breathed her last. In her womb? The son your father demanded of her. The son he had longed for. Prayed to the gods for. What else could bring forth such a tragic end, if not the hands of the Fates?

Now a grown woman, the beliefs your mother had impressed upon you would soon be tested. Left with no living sons to continue his legacy and no living wife to bring forth such living sons, your father’s lofty political aspirations could only be fulfilled through his daughter. You.

Your father wasted no time in advancing his plans.

After a long day spent praying at the temple of Pluto, you had been ready to wind down and relax. A good distance away from the centre of the city and situated atop a number of hills, a trip there takes up the whole day. You had set out at dawn, and as the sun set over the Tiber river to bring forth dusk, your shadow darkened the entrance of your family villa.

Exhausted both emotionally and physically, your body went through the motions of preparing yourself for supper, but your mind remained absent - occupied with thoughts of what could have been and what will never be.

After your bath you called for your maid and allowed her to dress you, head still in the clouds. It was only when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the bronze mirror atop your vanity that you noticed something was amiss.

Your eyes squinted as you inspected the image reflected on the polished surface.

“Why have you dressed me in these garments? I wish to wear my usual attire.”

You wore a tunic, the draped garment secured by an ornate brooch resembling an owl, with eyes made of precious gems. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary, was the saffron yellow hue of the tunic — since your mother’s passing you had been in mourning and thus only wore dark colours. A fact well-known by your maid, who dressed you day and night.

The hands fastening the brooch faltered as she gathered a response.

“My apologies, Domina.” She stepped back, head bowed in deference. “I assumed you would revert to your previous wardrobe, seeing as yesterday marked the end of…” She trailed off meekly, allowing you to fill in the blanks.

The previous day had marked a year since your mother’s passing, and thus the end of the customary mourning period. As such, it would be socially acceptable for you to appear happy and content again, reflected in the abandonment of deep plums and drab greys for sunny yellows and bold blues. You supposed it was not odd for her to assume you desire to don brighter colours.

But upon closer inspection, your suspicion rose again. Detailed with beautiful patterns and made of the smoothest damask money could buy, the tunic was much too elaborate for a simple family dinner in the villa. The last time you wore it was to a relative’s wedding, where your father made a point of telling anyone who would listen just how much it had cost to import the material from China.

You poised yourself to question her further, but the words died on the tip of your tongue when you saw the pleading look she gave you.

“Please, Domina.”

She offered you no further explanation, but the fear in her eyes was explanation enough. She was not doing this of her own accord, but under instruction. And if you knew your father well, under strict instruction.

Whatever plans he had for you, you knew you would have little to no choice in the matter.

Wordlessly, you acquiesced and allowed her to continue. You did not protest when she brushed, braided and pinned your hair into an elaborate updo. You were compliant when she lined your eyes with kohl and blotted your lips with mulberry juice.

Primped and primed like a prized show horse, you dismissed your maid, sat by the window and awaited your fate.

Not long passed before the sound of a male timbre filled the room.

“It appears your outfit is missing something.”

You turned to the direction of the voice to see your father standing in the doorway. Instinctively, you stood to your feet - less as a show of respect and more because you were used to being on guard in his presence.

In his hands he held a translucent, gauzy material, sheer in nature and vibrant in colour, that was all too familiar to you.

Your mother’s favourite veil.

Usually fixed firmly atop her head during special occasions - festivals, birthdays, weddings and the like - you could recognise it from a mile away. Growing up, you had associated this veil with womanhood itself. You would traipse around the corridors of the villa with it wrapped around your head haphazardly, the excess fabric trailing behind you as you ran as fast as your little legs could carry you.

What a foreign sight it was to see it in the hands of your father. And what a foreign sight it was to see him in your chambers.

Following your mother’s passing, the two of you had not conversed beyond what was formally required of you, your already fragile relationship fracturing completely. Yet here he was, extending a peace offering. An olive branch.

Pleased as you were to receive it, you were not foolish enough to believe this to be a genuinely affectionate gesture. A politician through and through, your father was no stranger to symbolic gestures, and he had made no attempts to mend your relationship prior to this moment. This sudden generosity, paired with your extravagant dressing, could only mean one thing.

He wanted something from you.

Now, you had two options. Comply with his request, or comply with his request begrudgingly. You chose the latter, of course. Even if obedience was your only option, you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

You casted him a quick look of derision. “If you wish to barter for my forgiveness with a piece of cloth, I am afraid your efforts have been wasted.”

Unphased, he stepped further into the room. “Now, now, peace, dear daughter. Let us be civil.” The faux humility in his tone was almost comical.

“Perhaps you feel…wronged by me for holding your mother to a certain standard. But, you must understand that I was simply fulfilling my duties, by encouraging her to fulfil her own. I have particular responsibilities to this family. As do you, now.”

You levelled him with an icy glare, wise enough not to express your discontent verbally, but too headstrong not to express it somehow.

“And even if I have, in some unfathomable way, wronged you; to err is human, to forgive, divine.”

After knowing him for as long as you did, you knew this was the closest thing to an apology you would get. You also knew your father was a talented orator - it’s how he gained a large enough political following to join the Senate, after all. And so you prepared yourself to be subjected to one of his moving speeches.

“It is common knowledge that women are the weaker sex,” What a great way to start, you snarked to yourself. “Yet, I have always seen a unique strength in you. Not physical strength, of course, but a mental fortitude. Since you were a young girl you have been willful, stubborn,” he took a step closer to you with each word, purple-lined toga brushing the floor as he advanced.

As he said the last word, he gave you a knowing look. “Nosy.”

You failed to hide your shock. “Oh yes, I saw you slinking around behind the pillars.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It matters not, now. In fact, whatever dregs of information you picked up from eavesdropping on my discussions may soon prove useful.”

His face was a picture of smugness, with an eyebrow cocked and the corners of his mouth upturned as if he knew something you didn’t. With just a few sentences he had complimented you (even if it was backhanded), revealed that he knew your secret, and teased you with a nugget of information. The perfect combination to make you anticipate his next words.

Silence filled the room as he kept you in suspense, mind whirring as you mulled over his cryptic words.

One hand held your mother’s veil in front of him, while the other caressed its folds delicately. His eyes had a faraway look in them that suggested his mind had travelled to another time.

“Your mother was a strong woman. Not strong enough in the end, regrettably, but strong nonthele-”

“Don’t.” You interjected. “You will not sully her memory with your caustic words.”

His lips spread into a diplomatic smile, but the twitch of his eye betrayed the irritation he felt. Belligerent as he was, he ignored your outburst and continued.

“Unlike her, you have the makings of a lady of great influence. Much like me, you have the mind for politics. That potential lies latent within you.”

With a gentleness you wished was also reflected in his words, he draped the veil over your head. “I advise you not to waste it, dear daughter, and suffer the fate of lesser women.”

You scoffed at his words, readjusting the veil so it rested perfectly atop your head and shoulders. “And how do you suggest I fulfil this…potential? The Senate is not exactly welcoming of women.”

Well-pleased that your interest had been piqued, he finally reveals his true intentions.

“Accompany me to the imperial banquet tonight. We will celebrate the successful conquest of Britannia.”

“I do not care for banquets, nor do I spare a thought for conquests.”

“You may not care for military conquests, but this banquet itself is a conquest of the political sort. In my experience, much more is won with words, than with swords. And tonight’s event presents an opportunity for much gain.”

Again with the cryptic words.

“Allow me to present you to the Emperors. Your face is comely enough to garner their attention, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, some men find opinionated girls like you to be charming.”

Is he insinuating what you think he is?, you thought incredulously. Surely not.

“The Senate may not be the place for women, but the Senate is not the only facilitator of politics. Why not practice your politics from Palatine Hill?”

There was no mistaking it. He intended to make an Empress of you. Equally as curious as you were sceptical, you decided to test his logic.

“Beauty is fleeting. Charm wanes with time. How would I maintain their favour?”

“That, dear daughter, is up to you. I am certain you will find a way, formidable as you are.”

While it pained you to admit it, he was right. You and your father were more alike than different, what with your scheming and blackmailing. Besides, you were formidable. You were cunning. You were capable.

There may be greater things in store for you yet.

And those greater things began with this banquet.

Upon arrival, you were met with the most magnificent sight you had ever seen. Sat proudly upon Palatine Hill, the palace looked like the image your mind conjured when picturing Olympus. After ascending the intimidating number of steps that led to the entrance, you truly felt like you’d ascended to the land of the gods. Wherever you looked there was amazing artwork that instilled equal parts awe and fear in you.

Look up, and there were grand arches to behold. Look to the side, and the spectacular frescoes offered a feast for the eyes. Look down, and there were beautifully designed floor mosaics you almost felt bad for stepping on.

As you passed through into the atrium, it was much the same. Ostentatiously decorated, it boasted gilded walls and glorious tapestries, each feature a testament to the Emperors’ opulence, and Rome’s riches.

But it was impossible to focus fully on the artwork with the room heaving as it was. Eyes darting from one person to another with every passing second, you were captivated by the spectacle the hoard of partygoers presented. Something seemed to be happening in every square foot of the room, each guest having their fill of whatever their vice of choice was for the night. Wine was in abundance, giving way to loose lips, and scantily-clad whores prowled about in the shadows, giving way to loose purse strings.

You had been to your fair share of lavish affairs, but this was a whole new world of revelry.

Between the loud percussion of the musicians’ instruments, the aroma of the heavily seasoned foods and the leering gazes of overexcited men, you began to feel overstimulated. You stuck close to your father as he led you into the heart of the throng, finding comfort in the familiar when surrounded by the foreign. Better the devil you know.

Oblivious to your discomfort, he reprimands you under his breath. “Stop clinging to me like a child, lest our venture fail before it has even begun.”

You’d been so taken by your surroundings that you hadn’t registered where your father was leading you to. Now you stood in front of the two men at the centre of this affair, who were seated majestically upon a golden threaded couch. You prayed you didn’t look like the bewildered little girl you certainly felt like.

With a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand, your father bowed.

“Imperators, what an honour it is to partake in these…wondrous celebrations with your Majesties.”

“Senator,” one of them said, voice smooth like honey but with an edge that demanded caution. His face bore a smile, but his tone was calm and measured. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” The twitch of his eyebrow suggested otherwise. “In a more agreeable mood, might I add.” The man beside him sniggers.

More agreeable? Whatever could that mean? For the second time in one night you found yourself deciphering cryptic words. Father must have angered the Emperors, somehow.

“And you’ve brought…” He trailed off, looking at your father expectantly.

“Yes, Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla,” with a single clap and an officious clearing of his throat he stepped to the side, no longer obscuring their vision of you. “May I present my daughter…”

You managed to regain your composure, exhibiting a grace only a lady of the upper echelons of society could possess when you sunk into a deep curtsy. Lifting your gaze, you were met with the hair-raising sensation of being observed. Not just observed – scrutinised.

A pair of eyes, deep brown like rich soil, trailed over your form. The man that addressed your father with contempt - Geta. His brows furrowed as he took the sight of you in. Lined with kohl much like yours, his eyes were smouldering in their examination.

Another pair, red-rimmed and cloudy with the haze of inebriation, were the perfect contrast. The man that sniggered - Caracalla. With irises of a cold blue hue, they would have been intimidating if they belonged to a face other than his, what with his rosy rounded cheeks and seemingly perpetual impish grin.

Despite their differences, the relation between the men was clear as day. Flaming locks of hair and the gold laurels that circled their heads confirmed their identities. These were the infamous twin tyrants.

But it wasn’t just the weight of their eyes that you felt. Lounging around the couch in various positions and in varying states of undress, was an entourage of courtesans. You did your best to avert your gaze, as theirs bore into you.

And what a pleasant sight you were. Adorned with ornate jewellery and clad in the finest of silks, you were easily one of the best dressed at the banquet. Before a word had been uttered, your appearance relayed a message – you were a lady of fine stature, more than accustomed to luxury and thus, would be well-suited to palace life.

Well-suited to be Empress.

Not taking any chances, your father decided not to leave anything up for interpretation.

He began listing your virtues as if reading from a handbook - 100 Things to Look For in a Roman Wife. He spoke of your piety, your beauty, your fertility. With every trait of yours that was mentioned, you grew increasingly more irate and keeping the docile smile on your face became increasingly more difficult.

“...and lest I forget, she is most gifted with the lyre-”

“How quaint.” Caracalla interrupted, a peal of childish laughter bubbling from his lips. “He presents his daughter’s hand as if he is lobbying for a law to be passed!”

Geta scoffed, “Or a conquest to be forfeited.”

At this, Caracalla doubled over in laughter, the overfilled cup of wine in his hand threatening to spill over the rim with every jostle of his frame. Clearly there’s a joke you’re missing here.

There’s a wicked glint in Geta’s eyes that tells you this joke has guile.

“Three sennights have lapsed since you last stood before us, spewing nonsense about abandoning our pursuit of Britannica.” The vitriol that coated his voice strung a discordant note in the mellifluous tune of his brother’s continuous laughter. “Yet here you stand in your Emperors’ palace,” he gestured at the ongoing frivolities. “Drinking and making merry with spoils from the very war you so vehemently opposed.”

Ah. It finally clicked. From what you had picked up from your father and his associates’ discussions, you knew that this conquest had long since been under contention among the Senators. The campaign was taking longer than anticipated, and required more reinforcements than expected. The Roman force was fatigued. At home, the starving plebeians of Rome were one famine away from revolting, and without the full support of the army, politicians relied on empty promises to appease their constituents and maintain order. Yet, the Emperors were adamant on expanding Rome’s borders.

For whatever reason, at the last Senate meeting three weeks ago your father had been the unfortunate soul to suggest that the troops should draw back. And now he stood before them at the celebration of the successful conquest, presenting you as a bargaining chip to secure his pardon. Opposing the Emperors was costly, and he decided you were going to pay that price on his behalf.

Geta leaned his head on his hands as he asked, “Tell me, Senator, what makes you think you will triumph this time?”

You watched your father’s reaction with bitter disbelief. For the first time in your life, your silver-tongued father, the man that had landed you this fate, floundered for words.

Fine. If this was the hand dealt to you, so be it. But you were going to do this your way.

“Your Majesties,” At the sound of your sweet voice, Geta’s gaze affixed itself to your face. Instantly, he was beguiled. “If I may…”

With the slow incline of his head, you were permitted to speak.

“I know little of war,” you feigned ignorance. “But I do know that defying the odds to bring glory to Rome is no small feat.” Preening at your praise, Geta leaned forward in his seat, a silent encouragement for you to continue. “Rome and her citizens are fortunate to be led by you, Imperators, and I am grateful to be in the presence of such wise rulers.”

His mouth spread into a self-satisfied smirk. “I bask in your praises, my lady. It pleases me to see that someone in your family has a semblance of loyalty to the powers above them” A pointed look was shot at your father. “You see, all those that oppose their Emperors,” His venomous gaze roved over the group of Senators shifting uneasily as they watched this ordeal. “Will soon learn that there is only one way for a man to wield power.” He held up his index finger for emphasis and paused for suspense. “War.”

With all the self-assurance of a man that has never truly been challenged, he stalked towards you.

“What other power can bring a man to his knees and cause him to surrender?”

“I can think of nothing greater than war!” Caracalla piped up from behind him.

“Yes, brother.” Geta held his cup of wine up in agreement. “By no other means can a man wield such power. I am sure my lady agrees?” He offered his right hand, each finger as bejewelled as the next.

The ultimatum he presented you with was clear. Kiss the ring, let all be forgiven and allow this encounter to end pleasantly. Refuse the ring, and…well, don’t refuse the ring.

But compliance was predictable, and would only get you so far. Your beauty and charm had ignited a spark of interest in him, but that wasn’t enough. You needed that spark to burst into a flame.

With swan-like grace you knelt before him and took his hand, smiling inwardly when his eyes followed your descent with rapture. You didn’t miss his quick intake of breath when you halted your movements to look up and meet his eye, lips an inch away from the stunning signet ring.

“Upon second thought,” You tilted your head as if considering his words. “There exists another power great enough to make a man kneel in surrender.” At your bold words, the hand you held tightened around your fingers until he had a firm grip of your hand. “A power so great, even Emperors are not immune.”

Gasps of shock came from the onlookers sober enough to process what they had heard.

“Impertinence!” Caracalla’s cry of protest tore you from the captivity of his brother’s gaze.

“Forgive my daughter, she oversteps her bounds.” Your father spat the words out and fixed you with a look of warning, a late and unappreciated attempt to de-escalate the night’s proceedings.

With a wave of Geta’s hand, his words were dismissed. For the sake of keeping your resolve, you pretended not to see the Praetorians return their drawn swords to their scabbards.

You returned to the intense stare of brown eyes narrowed in… intrigue? Suspicion? You weren’t sure, but you had his attention.

“And what power would that be?”

Your gentle smile had him entranced. “The strike of a drum, the strum of a lyre’s strings. Music, my Imperator, holds much power.”

See, while your father was busy waxing lyrical about you, you had been studying Geta closely. As he listened to others speak, his fingers unconsciously tapped the thigh of the courtesan perched on the arm of the couch. But they were not tapping any old rhythm – they tapped to the beat of the percussion in the background.

The ring your lips had puckered up to kiss was not embossed with an imprint of Mars, the god of war, but Apollo, god of music. Geta the Emperor championed conflict and violence, but Geta the man held music dear.

Rich eyes twinkled as his laugh rang in your ears. “Ah, yes. Your father mentioned your skill with the lyre. He failed to mention your humour.” He didn’t believe you.

“I assure you, Imperator, my lyre-playing is unparalleled.” You indulged him with a coy smile.

“You believe you would best our most talented musician? That your playing would put your Emperors’ finest to shame?” He challenged your claim.

“Given the chance, I would outplay each of the Nine Muses,” you asserted boldly. You rose to his challenge.

His eyes gleamed with ardour as he regarded your statement with a raised brow. “I await the day I hear you play with baited breath, my lady.”

“It would be my pleasure, my liege.”

Not risking any more excitement, you curtsied and took your father’s arm as he guided you towards the outskirts of the atrium, and away from watching eyes. He wasted no time expressing his displeasure.

“Have you lost your senses, girl? Has some strange plague come over your mind?!” He released an exasperated sigh. “You should have held that tongue of yours.”

“Oh, and left you there, stammering like a bumbling fool? Father,” you uttered the paternal term without an ounce of familial affection. “You entrusted this ploy into my hands, so leave it there.”

Anger flashed across his face like a clap of thunder. Before he could berate you for your indolence, however, a piercing shriek stole the moment.

You pushed through the crowd to see the commotion, weaving past bodies stilled with shock at whatever it is they were witnessing. When you got to the centre, you were met with a most harrowing display of fraternal discord.

Geta lay sprawled out on the marble floor, the corded muscle of his limbs tensing as he strained to hold back the man towering over him, wielding a dagger above his head. Caracalla.

At first glance one may have supposed this fray was borne of anger, but with the spittle flying out of gritted teeth that gnashed and snarled like those of some inhuman beast, the incoherent stream of words and the crazed look in his eyes, it was clear that he did not have full agency of his person.

The rumours were true. He was having one of his infamous episodes.

Your eyes darted from Praetorian to Praetorian, waiting for one of them, any of them to take action. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, hesitation rooting them to their spots. To raise a hand against Caracalla would be treason, punishable by death. To ignore the distress of Geta would be treason, also punishable by death. They were at an impasse.

The chatter of mingling guests and the ambience of the musicians’ instruments had long since stopped, leaving the grunts of the brothers to take their place. All watched on in stunned silence, revelers turned horrified spectators.

Their scrambling continued. Geta managed to hook a leg around Caracalla’s ankle, toppling him over to join him on the cold marble. Wine cups clanged as they were knocked to the ground, collateral. The cacophony of sound nearly masked the sound of Geta’s desperate plea.

“Break the spell! Break the spell!”

Moved by an impetus you couldn’t explain, you barreled further through the crowd until you reached the musicians’ corner. You grabbed the lyre from the hands of the bard (who was too focused on the ongoing tumult to protest), and started strumming the tune of a nursery rhyme favoured by Roman children both rich and poor.

Dulcet tones and sweet symphonies echoed through the chamber as you sang of Rome’s rolling hills, of fair maidens awaiting the return of brave soldiers, of the Tiber River’s ebb and flow.

Those around you listened intently, enraptured. They stepped aside, clearing a path for you towards the quarreling brothers. You walked forward as you sang, and as you reached the last verse you stood a few feet away from where they squirmed, limbs akimbo.

From your position you saw the exact moment the muscles in Caracalla’s face relaxed, and his body went limp. He released a weak whimper better-suited to an injured animal than the tyrannical emperor he was rumoured to be.

Eyes fixed on you over his brother’s shoulder, he dropped the dagger as if compelled. Tears began to run down his face as he wailed, balling himself up into a foetal position. When they noticed his change in disposition, his entourage took the chance to spirit him away from the room.

The final note of your song rang out. A beat passed as everyone came to, as if they too were held captive in a trance. Then, a slow, steady clap from one became a roaring applause, your fellow guests lauding your performance as if it had been planned.

Chest heaving from exertion, Geta used a three-legged (formerly four-legged) stool to pull himself from the floor and adjusted his toga. At the raise of his hand, the clapping stopped. Flopping back to sit on the couch, he gestured for you to come forward. His expression was inscrutable.

Before you could scrape together an apology, or some sort of explanation, you were utterly disarmed by the grin that spread across his face.

“My lady,” He huffed between words, still catching his breath. “I stand corrected. It appears your flair with the lyre is equally as bewitching as your looks.”

Your cheeks heated up at his confession of attraction towards you. “It pleases me that you think of me so, my Emperor.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, dark eyes taking their time to appraise you. “The power to bring a man to his knees can be very dangerous, you know. I believe it would be in the best interest of Rome and her citizens if such power was… managed by the capable hands of their Emperor.”

The chill of deja vu ran down your spine when he extended his hand in your direction. A second invitation to kiss the ring. Most people only get one.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

As your lips made contact with the cold metal of Apollo’s face and you sealed your fate, you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer. When you opened them again, you found eyes the colour of rich soil searching yours.

He turned the hand that gripped his and pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss to the back of it. His kisses travelled up your arm, growing more and more fervent, the plush of his lips leaving warmth on every spot they pressed against. He used his hold on you to pull you towards him until you were close enough to smell the heady scent of patchouli mixed with the subtle musk of perspiration, and count the freckles on his speckled cheeks, peeking through the layer of makeup.

His palm ran up and down your arm repeatedly, inching further up each time.

“You will make a home for yourself here, in these palace walls.” Brown eyes gazed into yours, full of a veneration you couldn’t fathom. “And you shall be my little Muse.”

As if the troubles of your life thus far had not been a sufficient allotment of suffering, the Fates had now tasked you with weathering the twin tempers of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla. And surviving.

Gods help you.

A/N: thank you ever so much for reading ! i'm working on part two so let me know if you want me to post it when it's done <3

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated x

#emperor geta x reader #geta x reader #gladiator ii #gladiator ii fic #gladiator 2 fic #gladiator ii fanfiction #geta x you #geta imagine #emperor geta #𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘢? 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 '𝘦𝘳!#𝘰𝘯𝘺𝘹𝘴𝘵𝘺𝘹 𝘧𝘪𝘤

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mccnbright · 1 day ago

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At the confirmation, the other man was talking about Cassandra, he lifted his head a bit, nodding in understanding. Of course, that Weiss lady was going to be a subject of interest above, well, maybe Romi. Who was not particularly interesting. In so that she had disappeared from public view, or something like that. She just existed in an opposing family to his own. Ira shrugged at the question at first, staying quiet, then decided, saying, “Not really. She's a Weiss. Haven't seen her in a while, man. Usually, that means she got knocked up and dear ol' dad sent her away.” But he doubted that was the case here, “I don't--Actually think that's what happened to Cassandra, though. Sooo, like, I don't know.”

Nodding as Romulus spoke about seeing Tomo's movies. Ira had not. Though it was unlikely Tomo was in movies Ira liked, more than Ira spitefully not watching the movies Tomo was in. Since there was no spite for his adopted brother. There was nothing, honestly, as far as Ira could guess. As Romulus carried on about Tomo, Ira again nodded, quiet for a moment before glancing away, “Yeah. I wouldn't know. I barely know him.”

Outside of their connection to Augustu, who seemed to forget Ira any day that ended with the letter 'y', which wasn't so bad, Ira had thought. Ira didn't have much to do with his other siblings, either. Not now in adulthood, anyway. Plus, he didn't want to talk to this stranger about his siblings, let alone anything else going on with his family. With Romulus stating he didn't think about getting a pet, yet, Ira quietly let the other go on. Wow. So interesting. A plant. “Got a Venus Flytrap, real cool man. Probably would be easy to hire someone who could house sit?”

If he believed it to be a deflection of vexation, then Romulus didn't acknowledge that whatsoever; the selective hearing was a fitful upbringing a middle son with two younger sisters ( and as everyone knew, it was the God-given right to annoy the hell out of little sisters, to make up for the pranking from the older brothers, ) albeit sparking a few tiffs with Remus here and there. The heist team had their individual set of weaknesses, which was why they had to regroup and bolster how they executed some of their tactics. One wasn't keen on repeating history. Looking back to the newspaper, the bouncer narrowed his eyes, affirming, "Cassandra. Why, you know her?" The young Vitelli didn't appear to have anything worthwhile, so he would have to look for a different lead into the rumors of old money.

"I think I've seen him in a few flicks," he said thoughtfully, flipping to the comics section of the newspaper, squinting against the glaring summertime rays that were blazing across the cityscape. Steam would be rolling off the asphalt before he knew it; at least the dry desert heat sort of rolled off of him, in contrast to the swampy moisture that was dewy on the air in Arkansas' flavor of the season. Neither were as fun as a trip to the beach, that he was sure of. "He seems... like a character." Which was something of an understatement; the actor looked bored out of his mind at the poker night. "Oh, no," shaking his head, he decided to close the paper and tuck it underneath his arm, "I haven't thought about getting a pet yet." Five years into this place, when would be a time he considered settling down? It wasn't like the end game was to stay when the team cleared out the banks of the two families — when and if they could organize such a feat. "Would be nice to have someone else in the house that's not my Venus flytrap, though."

#▐ ☁ Romulus #Threads

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speaknow-sw · 4 months ago

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•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : angst (a lot), light fighting, slapping, mentions of pregnancy, weapons.

A/N : tbh filler chapter bcs I’m struggling to write guys 😭 I had a blank plot and I’m not really satisfied with this chapter. But I figured out a plot for the next chapter so it should be easier to write. Enjoy 🫶🏻

• | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴠɪ: ʀᴏᴍᴇ’ꜱ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ꜱᴀᴄʀɪꜰɪᴄᴇ |•

Anakin is falling.

The darkness wraps around him like the arms of the underworld, weightless and infinite. He cannot feel his body, cannot tell if he still has one. He does not know if he is breathing.

All he knows is the falling.

The air is thick with whispers. They slip through the void like snakes, curling around him, voices both familiar and foreign. They speak in tongues he does not recognize, in languages that have been buried beneath the dust of centuries. Some are cries, others are murmurs. Some speak his name.

But what is his name?

"Anakin."

A voice cuts through the noise.

"Anakin, wake up."

Yours.

It is faint—just a thread of sound in the vast blackness—but it is real. He reaches for it, desperate, straining, trying to hold on. But his fingers grasp at nothing. You are slipping away.

And then—

The world shifts.

The darkness shatters like glass, and suddenly, he is not falling. He is standing.

No—he is someone else.

Not Anakin. Remus.

The sun is bright, the air thick with the scent of earth and stone. His hands are calloused, dirt under his fingernails, sweat dripping down his back. He turns his head, and beside him stands his brother.

Romulus. Obi-Wan.

They are not wearing armor, nor are they warriors yet. They are young men with fire in their veins, standing before the land they have claimed. Before them, Rome is nothing but an idea—a dream made of stone and sweat and blood.

He knows this. He remembers it.

"We will build something eternal."

Romulus speaks with certainty, eyes alight with purpose.

Remus—Anakin—does not answer. His gaze drifts, searching, drawn toward something else.

Drawn toward you.

You are there, standing among the workers, the sun catching in your hair. His brother’s betrothed. You wear the marks of nobility, of the divine, and yet—you look at him as if he is the one who commands your heart.

The air is heavy between you. He does not know what he feels, not yet. But he knows he is drawn to you, and that it is dangerous.

The memory fractures. Time bends.

The scenes flash too fast—like a storm of moments he cannot control.

He sees you at night, in the gardens, when the moon is the only witness to your crime. Your hands touch his face, his chest, tracing him like he is something holy. He grips your wrists, voice low with warning. "You cannot keep coming to me."

"Then tell me to leave."

He does not.

He never does.

Your lips find his, and the world ceases to exist.

Another flash.

An argument.

"I am tired of hiding!" His voice is raw with frustration. "Why must I be your secret? Do you love him?"

"Do not ask me that."

"Why? Because you are afraid of the answer?"

"Because if I say it out loud, the gods will hear me."

“I don’t care !”

“Don’t tell me to say it out loud when every pulse of my heart scream it to the world, every pumps, every breaths in body screams that I belong to you and only you.”

He remembers the way you touched his face then, as if memorizing it—as if you knew you would not be able to touch it for much longer.

And then—

Romulus.

Watching.

He knew.

The memories slow, sharpen, become something unbearable.

Rome stands, its foundations laid, its people celebrating.

Remus stands before his brother, sword in hand. His heart is pounding, but he does not know if it is from anger or heartbreak.

"Why?" his voice is hoarse, pleading like a little boy. "Why do you seek to cast me aside?"

Romulus is calm. Too calm.

"Only one of us can rule."

"We built this together." He looked at his brother hurt, betrayal seeping through his veins like a venomous snake’s bite. His eyes widens and his heart breaks for his other half, for he has been poisoned at the root of their bond. The strand linking him to his brother breaks.

"No. You built it on weakness. On your love for an impure."

The air turns cold. Remus grips his sword tighter. He should have seen this coming.

"She is not impure."

"She is not meant for mortals. And neither are you."

He sees it then, in his brother’s eyes—the decision has already been made.

The sword slashes through him.

The pain is instant, a fire in his chest. He gasps, staggers, the ground rushing up to meet him.

He falls into the mud, like a pig, his blood seeping into the soil that will become Rome.

He reaches out.

You are screaming.

He tries to hold on. Tries to touch you one last time.

But it is too late.

The world is gone.

There is only darkness again.

But this time, he does not fall.

He floats—somewhere beyond life, beyond death. He is Remus. He is Anakin. He is both and neither.

And then—

A voice.

Deep. Cold. Ancient.

"You have always been Remus."

The words coil around him, suffocating.

"You have always died, only to rise again."

The voice is not kind. It is not forgiving. It is a sentence, a curse.

"This is your destiny."

"No." He fights—he does not want this, he does not want to be a ghost of the past.

"You cannot escape what you are."

Blood. Betrayal. Death.

“The creator”

His skull split.

"You are Rome’s first king."

"And its first sacrifice."

The darkness pulls him under again.

He drowns.

And then—

Nothing.

The first thing Anakin feels is pain.

It is deep, aching, lodged in his very bones. His body is heavy, sluggish, as though he has been dragging it through centuries of time. His head throbs. His chest feels hollow, emptied of something vital.

And yet, he is awake.

His eyes blink open. The world is dim, flickering with candlelight. The scent of herbs lingers in the air, mixed with the faint trace of something familiar—you.

You are there, sitting beside him, carefully unwrapping the bloodied bandages from his wounds. Your fingers are gentle, precise, but there is something hesitant in your movements. As though you fear waking him.

Too late.

He exhales sharply. The sound makes you freeze.

Slowly, your eyes lift to his.

For a long moment, there is silence.

Then—

"How long ?" His voice is raw, deeper than before, filled with something old.

You blink. "You’ve been unconscious for six days."

"That’s not what I meant."

You look away. He watches your throat bob as you swallow, your fingers tightening around the bandages. You know exactly what he means.

"How long have you known?"

Silence again.

Anakin’s jaw clenches. The memories are there, burning behind his eyes like an open wound. The past. The truth. The betrayal.

"You should not be alive." His voice is low, edged with something dangerous. "I remember everything now."

His past life. His death. You.

You shift uncomfortably, resuming your work, carefully pressing fresh cloth against his wound. "I thought you might."

"You thought?" He laughs, but there is no humor in it. It is hollow. Bitter. "So it was only a matter of time before the great Remus remembered how his brother murdered him?"

Your hands still.

He watches you, gaze sharp despite the exhaustion dragging at his limbs. He sees you. Not just as the woman before him, but as something more. As something ancient.

"What are you?" His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. "You bled ichor. You are not mortal. Were you ever?"

You meet his gaze, and for the first time, you do not look away.

"Yes."

His stomach turns. He should have known. He should have realized it long ago. The way you moved, the way your presence wrapped around him like a force beyond human comprehension. He loved you before he even knew your name.

Just like before.

Just like always.

"So it was all a lie."

"No." Your voice sharpens, firm, but there is something fragile beneath it. "Nothing was a lie, Anakin."

He scoffs. "You let me fall for you. Again."

You flinch. Because it’s true.

His hands curl into fists. "Tell me, did you know from the beginning?"

"Yes."

He exhales sharply, chest rising and falling with the force of it. Anger coils in his veins, but beneath it—something else.

"And you said nothing?"

"Would you have believed me?"

He wants to say yes. But he cannot. Because he knows, deep down, that he wouldn’t have.

Because the truth is too cruel.

Because he was never meant to live.

"This is my curse," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "To die and rise again. To be nothing but a shadow of what should have been."

"No." Your hand is on his now, gripping his fingers tightly. "You are more than that."

He stares at your hands, at the way his calloused fingers fit between yours. His breathing is heavy, uneven. His heart pounds—too fast, too alive.

"Then tell me what I am."

The silence stretches between you like an open wound.

Anakin waits, his blue eyes sharp, unrelenting. His breath is uneven, chest rising and falling beneath your touch. He wants an answer—demands one.

You exhale softly, your fingers still gripping his. And then, finally, you tell him the truth.

"You are my love."

His expression shifts—something flickers in his eyes, something raw, something that nearly undoes him. But he does not recoil. He does not scoff, nor sneer, nor push you away.

Instead, he only stares.

"That’s what I am?" he murmurs, voice hoarse.

"Yes."

A shaky breath escapes him. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment as if the weight of your words is something he cannot yet bear.

When he looks at you again, his hands tighten around yours.

"Then tell me how to end it."

You frown. "End what?"

"This." His voice hardens. "This curse. This fate. How do I break free from it?"

You hesitate.

His fingers twitch—he notices your pause, your silence, the way your throat bobs as you struggle for words. He knows. He already knows.

"The only way out," you whisper, "is through the gods themselves."

His grip tightens.

"You’re saying I must confront them."

"Yes."

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. "And if I don’t?"

"Then you will die again, and again, and again." Your voice does not waver. "They will never let you rest, Anakin."

His jaw clenches. Anger flashes behind his eyes—not just at the gods, not just at you, but at the entire order of the world. At Rome, at fate, at history itself.

"So that’s it." His voice is low, edged with something dark. "The gods will never let me go unless I take the fight to them."

You nod.

Anakin exhales slowly. When he speaks again, his voice is steel.

"Then let them try to stop me."

Anakin’s breath is shallow, his body still weak, but his mind—his mind burns.

The truth unfurls inside him like a sword being unsheathed, like an altar stained with the blood of a slaughtered lamb. Except he was never the lamb. He was the sacrifice.

He grips the sheets beneath him, fingers curling into the fabric as the revelation strikes him—hard, merciless.

"I’m Rome’s first king," he whispers, half to himself, half to you. His voice is distant, as if speaking it aloud makes it real.

But then his expression darkens, his eyes shadowed by something deeper, something furious.

"But I am also her first offering."

He sees it now. How his blood was the foundation upon which Rome was built. How his name was torn from the mouths of men, how his brother stood over his broken body, sword dripping with the life they once shared.

"Rome was never his." His voice is hoarse, laced with something almost unbearable. "It was mine. It was always mine."

He exhales sharply, running a hand over his face, pressing his palm into his temple as if trying to silence the echoes of his past.

"And now I walk her streets like a ghost, wearing another man’s name."

His gaze finds yours. A terrible understanding settles between you.

You reach for him, your fingers gentle as they trace over his arm, over the bandages wrapped around his wounds. "You were never just a man, Anakin. You were a myth before you were even born."

He swallows, his throat working around the weight of his thoughts.

"I don’t want to be a myth," he mutters, voice low, almost resentful. "I just wanted—"

He stops himself.

You wait. But he does not finish.

Because he knows the truth: it does not matter what he wanted. It never did. The gods shaped his path long before he had the chance to carve his own.

But maybe—just maybe—he can carve it now.

The months pass in a blur of steel and whispers, of restless nights and long days spent preparing for a war no mortal army has ever waged.

Anakin trains relentlessly, pushing himself to the edge of exhaustion. He sharpens his blade, over and over, as if he could carve his own fate into the steel. He learns everything he can—of the old gods, of their weaknesses, of the wars they have waged before. He gathers men, allies, those who have suffered under divine cruelty and wish to see the old order crumble.

And you—

You carry a secret heavier than any sword.

It was the Fates who told you. Three months ago, in the quiet of the night, when the world was caught between dusk and dawn. You had gone to them, seeking guidance, demanding to know if there was another way. A way to break Anakin free from his fate without waging war on the heavens.

They had given you no comfort.

"The threads are woven, child. But another now weaves beside them."

You had not understood—until they had placed a hand over your stomach, their touch like ice, like eternity itself.

"You carry the son of Remus."

The words had struck like lightning, burning through you with the weight of what they meant.

"His destiny is not yet fulfilled. But the one you bear—"

Their pale, lifeless eyes had stared into yours, unblinking.

"He is destined for great things. He will rise where others have fallen. He will reshape the world in ways even the gods cannot predict."

Your hands had trembled over your abdomen. You had not known—not yet. But now you did, and there was no undoing that knowledge.

The Fates had disappeared into the dark, leaving you alone with the truth.

You had told no one. Not yet.

Not even Anakin.

Because how could you? How could you look into his eyes, knowing that he had already been condemned by prophecy, and tell him that another fate had already been written in the blood of his unborn child?

So you said nothing.

Instead, you fought. You planned. You prepared. You stood at Anakin’s side as he gathered his strength, as he gathered his army. You watched him transform into something more than a man, into something both mortal and divine, a warrior who carried the weight of history on his back.

And all the while, life grew inside you. Silent. Waiting.

Anakin watches you more closely than ever.

At first, he doesn’t know what it is. There’s something in the way you move—your steps a little slower, your hand lingering over your stomach when you think no one is looking. He catches the flicker of hesitation in your eyes, the way you sometimes stare at him as if you want to say something, but never do.

He’s always been good at reading you. Too good.

And now, as the war drums beat in the distance, as the weight of destiny presses down on both of you, he finally speaks.

It happens in the dead of night, in the quiet of his chambers. He stands by the window, sharpening his gladius with slow, methodical strokes, but his gaze keeps flickering to you. You sit on the edge of the bed, your hands clasped together, shoulders tense.

“You’ve been hiding something from me.”

His voice is low, measured. But there is something beneath it—something sharp.

You stiffen but don’t look at him. “That’s ridiculous.”

“No, it’s not.” He sets the blade down, turning fully to face you. “You think I haven’t noticed? You’re different. You’re holding something back.” He steps closer, eyes narrowing. “What is it?”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing, Anakin. You’re imagining things.”

He scoffs, unimpressed. “Don’t lie to me.”

His words slice through the air, cutting too close. You try to stand, to move away, but he catches your wrist before you can. His grip isn’t harsh, but it’s firm—demanding.

“Tell me.”

You meet his gaze, and for the first time in weeks, you see it—the storm in his eyes, the desperation hidden beneath the anger. He doesn’t just want to know. He needs to.

You swallow hard.

“It’s not important right now,” you whisper.

He exhales sharply, his jaw clenching. “Not important? We are preparing for war against the gods, and you’re keeping secrets from me?” He shakes his head. “No. I won’t allow it. I won’t let you carry something alone when it’s our battle to fight.”

Your chest tightens.

This is Anakin—stubborn, relentless, yours. And he will not let this go.

So you take a breath.

And you tell him.

Anakin stares at you, unblinking.

For a moment, the words don’t sink in. They hang in the air between you, heavy, unspoken truths finally given shape.

His son.

His hands tremble. His breath falters. He almost doesn’t dare to believe it.

And then—

“What did you just say?”

His voice is quiet, but it carries a terrible weight.

You swallow hard, your fingers tightening in your lap. “I saw the Fates,” you whisper. “They told me—I’m pregnant. With your child.”

Silence.

A moment stretched so thin it feels like it might snap.

But then his expression shifts. His brows furrow, his eyes darkening—not with shock, not with joy, but with rage.

“And his fate?” His voice is low, a dangerous edge creeping into it. “What did they say about his fate?”

Your hands shake. “They said he was destined for something great.”

His laugh is sharp, bitter. “Destined?” He paces away from you, hands in his hair. “Just like I was? Just like you were?” He turns on you, fury radiating from every inch of him. “You mean to tell me that the gods have already claimed him? That before he’s even taken his first breath, they’ve woven chains around his future?”

His fury is wildfire—hot, all-consuming.

“They have no right,” he growls, his fists clenched. “No right to condemn him the way they condemned me.”

You flinch at the storm in his voice, at the way his body trembles with barely restrained wrath.

“Anakin—”

“No.” He cuts you off, his chest heaving. His blue eyes burn with something primal, something feral. “I won’t let them do this. I won’t let them take my son the way they took me.”

You watch him, your own heart pounding.

You understand his fury. Because it is yours, too.

But fate is not so easily broken.

The words leave your lips before you can stop them. "You can’t defeat the gods, Anakin."

His head snaps toward you, eyes blazing, jaw tightening. The room feels too small, the air charged with something volatile.

His voice is sharp as a blade. "I can’t?"

You swallow, standing your ground. "No one can."

His expression twists into something dark, something wounded. "Is that what you think?" His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "That I’ll fail? That I’ll kneel like every mortal before me and accept the chains they’ve forged?"

"Anakin—"

"No." His voice cracks like thunder, his anger unfurling like a storm. "You don’t believe in me. You never did."

"That’s not—"

"Then say it." He takes a step closer, his fury searing. "Say you believe I can end this. Say you believe I can kill the gods."

You can’t.

Because you know the truth. The gods are not men. They are not beasts of flesh and bone, bound by the same rules. They are eternal. Unyielding.

And yet—so are you.

He sees it in your silence. The flicker of doubt in your eyes. And then—

He laughs. A bitter, humorless thing. "You think I can’t win because you are one of them."

"Anakin—"

"You are a goddess." His voice is hoarse, seething. "And if I can beat you, then I can destroy all of them."

You barely see it coming. The moment his words strike, something inside you snaps.

Your hand flies before you can stop it—

A sharp crack echoes through the chamber as your palm connects with his cheek.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Just stands there, breathing hard, his head slightly turned from the force of the blow.

You stare at him, your own hand trembling.

And then you run.

You don’t wait for him to call you back. You don’t look back. You just run, the lump in your throat unbearable, the world spinning around you.

Because you knew this day would come. The moment he realized plainly what you were.

You just didn’t think it would hurt this much.

Your feet pound against the earth, breath ragged as you push yourself forward. The wind whips through your hair, but you don’t feel it—you feel nothing but the burn in your lungs, the ache in your chest. You just run.

You don’t know where you’re going. You don’t care. You just need to be away. Away from the fury in his voice, the betrayal in his eyes, the terrible, undeniable truth that he will never stop fighting—not even for you.

But you hear him behind you.

"Wait!" Anakin’s voice is raw, desperate. "Damn it, stop!"

You don’t.

You don’t want to hear the remorse in his voice, don’t want to turn around and see him reaching for you like he always does—because you’ll let him. You always let him. And if you let him, you’ll forgive him. You’ll let yourself believe that this love is enough to stop the war that’s coming.

But it isn’t.

"I didn’t mean it!" he shouts, his voice breaking. "Please, just—just stop running!"

He’s gaining on you. Even weak from his wounds, even after all these months of healing, he is still Anakin. A warrior. A force of nature.

You push yourself harder, faster—your heartbeat a drum in your ears.

And then—

A hand grabs your wrist.

He yanks you back, and you collide into him with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs.

You struggle, twisting in his grip, but he won’t let go. His arms come around you, holding you close, holding you too tightly—like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

"Let me go!" you cry, voice hoarse, but his fingers only dig deeper into you.

"No!" he snaps, voice trembling. "No—I won’t. Not again."

You shove at him, but he won’t move. "Damn you, Anakin—"

"I know." His forehead drops against yours, breath ragged, uneven. "I know, I know, I know. Just—just stop running from me."

You shake your head, eyes burning. "You don’t understand—"

"Then make me understand." His voice is desperate, his hands trembling where they clutch you. "Tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix this. Tell me how to fight them without losing you in the process."

You close your eyes, the weight of his words pressing into you.

There is no answer.

And the worst part is—you think he knows that, too.

Anakin’s hands clench into fists at his sides. "You’re younger than me," he says, his voice rough, barely contained. "You don’t understand what you’re up against."

You glare at him, fury boiling under your skin. "Don’t patronize me, Anakin."

"It’s not patronizing—"

"Yes, it is!" You take a step closer, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. "I may look young, but I have lived for decades, for centuries! Do you think I don’t know war? That I don’t know suffering?"

His nostrils flare, his jaw tight as he stares you down. "You’re carrying our child," he grits out. "This fight is no longer just about us."

"And you think that makes me weak?" you snap. "That I should just sit back and watch you throw yourself at the gods alone?"

Anakin exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "It’s not about weakness. It’s about—"

"You think I can’t fight?" You step forward, shoving against his chest. "That I won’t fight?"

His breath is ragged, his shoulders heaving as he looks at you. "I think you shouldn’t have to."

That stop you.

Anakin grips your shoulders, his eyes wide with desperation. "You can’t fight," he pleads. "Not now. Not like this."

You shake your head, chest heaving, but he tightens his hold, forcing you to meet his gaze. "I won’t risk you. I won’t risk our child."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your child. His child. A life caught between fate and war, a soul not yet born but already marked by the gods.

"Anakin—"

"They’ll come for you," he cuts in, voice thick with fear. "You know they will. If you fight them, they won’t just punish me—they’ll punish both of you. I won’t let that happen."

His hands lower, one sliding to press gently against your stomach. A protective touch, a silent promise. "If I fight, I fight alone."

A chill skates down your spine. "You can’t."

"I have to." His jaw tightens. "I’d burn the whole world down before I let them take you from me."

"And what about you?" Your voice cracks. "You think I can just stand back and watch them destroy you?"

His lips part, but before he can answer—

The world shifts.

A sudden sharpness in the air, as if the sky itself is gasping. The wind dies. The ground beneath you turns wrong, like something hollow and ancient is stirring beneath your feet.

Then—

Blackness.

It erupts around you, thick and endless. Not just darkness—something alive, something hungry. It curls around your legs, your arms, slithering up your body like living shadow.

"No—!" Anakin lunges for you, but the darkness surges between you like a tidal wave, throwing him back.

"Anakin!" You reach for him, but the shadows coil tighter, devouring you, dragging you into the abyss.

His scream is the last thing you hear before everything disappears.

Consciousness returns like a tide, slow and inexorable.

Your body is light, weightless, as if it does not belong to you. The air around you hums, thick with something ancient, something beyond mortal comprehension. The scent of aged parchment and burning incense fills your lungs as you slowly open your eyes.

You are no longer in the temple.

Before you, seated at a loom that stretches beyond sight, are the Moirae. The three sisters of fate, weavers of destiny, the arbiters of life and death.

Clotho, the Spinner, her delicate fingers guiding the spindle as she spins the raw essence of existence into form. Lachesis, the Measurer, gliding her hands over golden threads, feeling their weight, calculating their course. And Atropos, the Unavoidable, her shears gleaming in the dim light, poised over the fabric of eternity.

They are waiting for you to speak.

"Where am I?" Your voice is hoarse, as though you have not used it in years.

"Beyond the reach of men," Clotho answers without looking up, her hands never ceasing their delicate work.

"Beyond the reach of gods," Lachesis murmurs, running a finger along a silken thread.

"For now," Atropos finishes, lifting her gaze to meet yours.

You push yourself up, your limbs unsteady. "Why am I here?"

"Because you were dying," Clotho says simply. "And your child cannot be allowed to die with you."

Your breath catches. Instinctively, your hands fly to your stomach. "The child…"

"Lives," Lachesis confirms, her expression unreadable. "For now."

You swallow, trying to steady your pulse. "What happened?"

"The Cult of Romulus," Atropos states, as if the name itself is a blade. "They came for you. For him."

Memories slam into you like a tidal wave—the argument, Anakin’s voice raised in frustration, the blackness that swallowed you whole. But before that…

"Anakin—" You push to your feet, panic rising. "Where is he?"

Clotho’s gaze remains on her spinning. "Still fighting."

Lachesis watches you carefully. "Still breathing."

Atropos tilts her head. "For now."

Your heart pounds. "You saved me but left him there?"

"We did not save you," Clotho corrects. "We saved what grows within you."

Lachesis gestures to the loom, where a new thread glows faintly amidst the others. "A fate has been woven that must not be unraveled."

"Your child is more than a son," Atropos says, eyes gleaming. "He is an axis upon which the future turns."

A chill runs down your spine. "What does that mean?"

Lachesis leans forward. "It means we did not pull you from death out of kindness."

"We did it because your son must live," Atropos finishes. "No matter the cost."

The weight of their words settles on you like iron shackles. The fate of your unborn child is already written in their tapestry, and the gods themselves have taken notice.

But what of Anakin? What of the war that now rages in your absence?

You clench your fists. "Send me back."

The Moirae exchange glances.

Clotho sighs, as if already knowing the outcome.

"So eager to return to ruin," Lachesis muses.

"So desperate to fight what has already been decided," Atropos says.

But you do not care.

Anakin is still fighting. You will not leave him behind.

Whatever the Moirae’s plans are, whatever destiny they have carved into stone, you will not let them dictate your future.

Your child’s future.

"Send me back," you repeat, voice steady. "Now."

Clotho does not stop spinning. Lachesis does not stop measuring. Atropos does not lift her shears.

They do not budge.

"Send me back," you demand again, louder this time, stepping closer to them. "Now."

But the Moirae are as immovable as the fates they weave.

"You ask for what cannot be given," Clotho murmurs, her fingers never faltering as she spins another strand of silk into existence.

"What cannot be changed," Lachesis adds.

"What has already been decided," Atropos finishes.

Frustration claws at your throat. "I do not care what has been decided." You shake your head. "I will not let them take everything from me."

"They have already taken everything from you," Atropos says simply. "And still, you have not learned."

The words are a curse, a prophecy, a cruel truth.

But before you can argue, the loom shifts, the threads part, and suddenly—

You see him.

Anakin.

He stands at the heart of the battle, a storm of steel and fire, cutting through men like a force of nature. Blood splatters across his skin, his golden hair damp with sweat, his chest heaving.

He is wounded, but he does not stop.

You built this together—these three months of secrecy, of careful planning, of whispered oaths in the dark. And now it is all burning before your eyes.

The Cult of Romulus is relentless. They come in waves, clad in crimson and gold, their banners snapping in the wind. They are fighting for a god that was never theirs, for a history built on a lie.

And Anakin is alone against them.

Your hands shake as you reach toward the image, as if you could tear through the veil, as if you could touch him, help him.

But there is nothing.

You are stranded here, in the timeless void of the Moirae’s domain, forced to watch.

"Let me go," you whisper, voice breaking. "Please."

Lachesis watches you with something almost like pity. "You do not understand yet, do you?"

"What am I supposed to understand?" you snap, eyes still locked on the battle, on Anakin as he swings his blade in a deadly arc, his enemies falling at his feet. "That you have already decided how this ends?"

"That there is no victory in war," Clotho murmurs. "Only survival."

"And survival is never without a cost," Atropos finishes, her shears glinting.

You shake your head violently. "No."

Anakin stumbles. His left knee buckles, just for a second. The opening is small—but enough.

A spear is thrust forward.

"No!"

Your scream echoes in the endless chamber.

But the Moirae do not react.

They do not save him.

And neither can you.

For the first time in your long existence, something inside you shatters.

Power surges through your veins, raw and untamed, a force beyond your understanding. The Moirae’s loom trembles, the threads quivering as if they sense the shift in fate. The three sisters look up in unison, their expressions unreadable, but you do not stop to decipher their meaning.

Time slows. No—time stops.

The battlefield freezes before your eyes. Anakin is caught mid-motion, his muscles taut, the spear mere inches from his side. The Cult of Romulus is suspended like statues, their mouths open in silent war cries, blood droplets hanging in the air like shattered rubies. The wind itself has halted, the smoke of burning banners curling in unnatural stillness.

You do not hesitate.

The void collapses around you, and in the next breath, you are there.

The scent of iron and death fills your lungs. The air is thick with the remnants of war, and though the world remains frozen, you can still feel the heat of battle radiating from Anakin’s skin. He is alive—but only because you have bent the rules of existence to make it so.

Your hand clasps his wrist, fingers digging into his pulse point, anchoring him to you.

And then—

Time crashes back into motion.

The spear drives forward, but it finds only empty air. Anakin is no longer there. Neither are you.

In a blink, you are far from the battlefield, the two of you collapsing onto the cold marble of an abandoned temple. Your breath is ragged, your body trembling from the force of what you have done.

Anakin gasps, gripping his chest, his wide eyes darting around in confusion before locking onto you. His gaze is wild, furious, disoriented.

“What—” His voice is hoarse. “What just happened?”

You swallow, still struggling to catch your breath. “I saved you.”

His hands find your shoulders, shaking you, demanding answers. “How?” His eyes search yours, his fury barely contained. “What happened ?”

The power is still humming beneath your skin, a new force you do not fully understand.

But one thing is clear.

The Moirae were wrong. Fate can be changed.

The realization settles over you like a tidal wave, crashing into the very foundation of your existence.

You have always been powerful. You were born of myth, shaped by destiny itself. You are the goddess of legends—your words have breathed life into heroes, your whispers have shaped empires. But for centuries, your power has been shackled, caged by the will of the gods who feared what you could become.

Until now.

Your hands tremble as you press them against your stomach. The power that surged through you, that allowed you to stop time, to tear yourself from the Moirae’s grasp—it is not foreign. It is yours. But for the first time in your long, endless existence, it is unleashed. And it is because of him.

Anakin is watching you, his breathing still uneven from battle. “What is it?” His voice is gruff, but beneath it, there is something softer. Concern.

You look up at him, your lips parting, but the words take a moment to come. “My power,” you murmur. “It’s been locked away for so long. The gods—they sealed it.” You exhale shakily. “But now… I can feel it. Flowing through me. Through him.”

Anakin’s gaze flickers downward, toward your stomach. A shadow passes over his face. “You’re saying—”

“He’s letting me channel it,” you whisper. “I am powerful, but he makes me whole.”

The silence between you is thick, heavy with meaning.

Anakin takes a step closer, his eyes dark and stormy. “So this is their plan.” His jaw tightens. “They didn’t just curse me with this fate. They bound you. And now they’re trying to use our son as a vessel for something greater than us both.”

You shake your head. “No, Anakin. This is our power. Not theirs.”

His fingers twitch at his sides, as if restraining himself. “Then why does it feel like a trap?” His voice is low, dangerous. “They let you have your power back, but only because of him. Because they need him.” He swallows hard. “They want our son for something, don’t they?”

You hesitate.

And that hesitation is enough.

Anakin’s face twists in fury, in heartbreak. “They want to make him another sacrifice,” he growls. “Just like me.”

The words cut deep.

Because you know he is right.

The sobs wrack through you violently, your body trembling under the weight of your grief. It spills out in broken, rambling whispers—words of failure, of weakness, of the unbearable truth that no matter how powerful you are, you cannot even protect your own child.

"I'm a useless goddess," you choke out, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. "I—I was meant to shape legends, to guide heroes, but I can't even keep my own child safe. What kind of mother am I? What kind of god am I?"

Anakin doesn't say anything at first.

But then, strong arms wrap around you, lifting you effortlessly off the ground, cradling you as if you weigh nothing at all. His warmth is overwhelming, his hold steady and unyielding. You bury your face against his chest, sobbing into the fabric of his tunic, gripping onto him like he is the only thing anchoring you to this world.

"Stop," he murmurs, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Don't say that."

His hands—those hands, rough and scarred from war, yet so heartbreakingly gentle with you—stroke the top of your head, fingers threading through your hair with surprising care. He holds you tighter, as if trying to press his strength into you, as if willing his own resolve into your trembling body.

"You’re not useless," he says. His voice is firm, almost stubborn. "You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. You’ve spent centuries defying the gods. You’ve built something real, something worth fighting for." He pulls back just enough to tip your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "And you sure as hell aren’t weak because you’re scared for our son. That makes you his mother."

Your breath catches in your throat.

"I know I’m not good at—at this," he mutters, glancing away as if embarrassed. "Comforting people. Saying the right things. But I know one thing." His fingers tighten on your waist. "I won’t let them take him from us. I won’t let them take you from me."

His words settle deep in your chest, pushing back the crushing weight of helplessness. You sniffle, gripping his tunic tighter, pressing yourself against him.

"You promise?" you whisper, your voice small.

Anakin exhales, pressing his forehead against yours. "I swear it," he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips.

And for the first time since you learned the truth, you believe him.

Vesta appears before you, her presence like the steady warmth of a hearth in the dead of winter. She does not arrive with thunder or blinding light—there is no grand display of power, only the quiet radiance of something eternal, something that has never once flickered out.

You step back instinctively, still raw from your breakdown, from Anakin’s fierce promises and the lingering tremble in your hands. But Vesta merely watches you with knowing eyes, the firelight in them dancing like the embers of an ancient flame.

“I have something for you,” she says, and when she raises her hand, a gladius materializes in her grasp.

It is unlike any weapon you have ever seen. The blade is dark, forged from something older than Olympus itself, the hilt bound in leather that looks worn with age. It hums in her hands, as if alive, as if it recognizes you. As if it wants to be wielded by you.

You stare at it, then at her, suspicion creeping into your voice. “This can wound a god, can’t it?”

Vesta inclines her head. “It can do more than that.”

Your fingers twitch. You want to take it. You need to take it. But something holds you back—logic, or perhaps distrust. She is a goddess. She is one of them.

Your jaw tightens. “Why are you helping me?”

Vesta’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in her gaze. “Because I have no place in war,” she says, voice soft but steady. “I am the flame that warms, not the one that destroys. But my siblings—they are cruel, and they will not stop. They do not tolerate defiance.”

Her eyes land on your stomach, where life stirs within you, fate woven into the very fabric of your unborn child’s existence.

“I have seen what is to come,” she continues. “The gods will not allow this child to live. They will see it as a threat. You must be ready.” She extends the gladius toward you. “And you must be willing to strike first.”

You hesitate. “You would betray them?”

“I would see the world change,” Vesta says simply. “I have watched mankind build and burn, rise and fall. I have kept my fires lit through it all. But you—he—” her gaze shifts briefly to Anakin, resting just beyond the threshold, unaware of the conversation unfolding “—are different. He was always meant to shape the world, but the gods never expected you to fight alongside him.”

She steps forward, pressing the gladius into your hands. “So fight.”

The weapon is cold, impossibly so, but as your fingers curl around the hilt, heat surges through your veins. The gladius hums again, this time in recognition, in acceptance. It is yours now.

Vesta watches you carefully. “The gods will not be merciful,” she warns. “Not even to one of their own.”

You lift the blade, feeling its weight, feeling the shift of destiny in your grip.

“Neither will I.”

Vesta watches as you test the weight of the gladius in your hand, but she does not look reassured. If anything, there is something grave in her expression, something unfinished.

"You will need more than a blade," she says at last.

You frown. "What do you mean?"

Her gaze drifts past you, toward where Anakin stands outside, arms crossed, his face hardened by war, by fate. By the inevitable battle that will come.

"He is mortal," Vesta murmurs. "And mortals break."

Your grip tightens around the hilt of the gladius. "I won’t let him die."

"Not by will alone," she counters. "The gods will strike at him first. He is their greatest threat. You may have the blade that can wound them, but he needs something that can withstand them."

She raises her hands, and suddenly the air crackles with something ancient, something powerful. The flames around her shift, dancing wildly, and in the flickering light, a vision forms—a shield, battered but unyielding, its surface marked with symbols older than Rome itself.

Your breath catches. "Where is it?"

Vesta’s eyes burn as she recites:

"Neither sky nor soil cradle its weight, Not in the hands of the just nor the grip of the damned.

Taken by shadows, bound by debt, Where the past weeps in silent lament,

And the future spills in crimson tides. The unbending shall not wield it,

The unworthy shall not find it. Only the forsaken, May call it by name and claim its fate."

The vision fades, the fire settling back into a quiet glow.

You stare at her.

Vesta only offers a small, knowing smile. "I have given you what I can. The rest is yours to uncover."

You exhale sharply, mind racing. "And this shield—"

"—can withstand even the wrath of Olympus," she finishes. "If you can claim it. The Flectere"

Your heart pounds. A shield bathed in the blood of gods. A relic lost to time, waiting beneath the bones of the first wolf.

Anakin's only chance.

Vesta turns, already fading into the light.

"Find it," she says, her voice echoing in the quiet. "Before the gods find you."

Anakin grips the gladius, testing its weight in his palm. The blade hums with an eerie resonance, as if it knows it was forged for something greater—something beyond mortal hands. He swings it once, a sharp, clean arc through the air, and the edge glows faintly as it slices through the space before him.

You watch him, your arms wrapped around yourself, as if holding yourself together. The past days have been a storm, an unraveling of everything you once knew, yet here he stands—solid, unshaken, the only thing that feels real in this chaos.

He catches you staring and smirks, lowering the blade. "What?" His voice is softer than usual, teasing, but with an edge of something deeper.

You shake your head, stepping closer. "Nothing. Just... you."

His brow furrows, his expression unreadable for a moment before he exhales, setting the gladius down. "Come here," he murmurs, reaching for you.

You don’t hesitate. You step into his arms, pressing yourself against him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. His hand comes up to tangle in your hair, cradling the back of your head as if you might slip away from him.

“I hate that they did this to you,” you whisper against his skin, your fingers curling into his tunic. "That they wrote your fate in blood before you even had a chance to live it."

His lips press against your temple, a lingering warmth. "They didn’t," he mutters. "Not really." He pulls back just enough to look at you, brushing his thumb across your cheek. "I’m still here. I still choose."

Your throat tightens, a storm of emotions rising in your chest. "And what do you choose?"

A pause. Then, his lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smirk, something softer. "This," he says simply, leaning down until his forehead rests against yours. "You."

You close your eyes, feeling his breath mingle with yours. For a moment, there is no war, no gods, no fate—just the two of you, caught in a fleeting, fragile moment of peace.

You can break a man's body, shatter his bones, steal his future—but the fire in his soul will burn through the darkness.

#hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker fluff #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin x you #anakin x reader #evie writes

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rainandandy · 10 months ago

Note

Hiii, could you do a rain carradine x reader fic where they both survived the events of romulus and are safely brought to yvaga but yn is badly injured so she was in a coma and rain had to wait for her to wake up?

Warnings: Grief, Coma description, mentions of blood,

Word Count: 1883

Pairings: Rain Carradine x Fem!Reader

The cryopod’s hiss was the first sound that Rain heard as her consciousness slowly returned. Her limbs felt stiff, her mind foggy from the long sleep. As her senses sharpened, panic knotted her stomach— she remembered the dire circumstances they had left behind. The urgency to check on you and Andy propelled her from the pod. Rain’s heart pounded as she rushed to your side, her boots clanging against the metal floor of the Corbelan.

You were still unconscious, the dried blood on your forehead a stark contrast to your pale skin. Rain’s hands trembled as she traced the line of your jaw, whispering your name softly, her voice a fragile thread in the quiet of the medical bay. "Please, wake up," she murmured, each word laden with desperation. But you remained motionless, the steady beep of the heart monitors the only response in the sterile room.

After ensuring you were as comfortable as possible Rain then turned her attention to Andy, who was beginning to stir in his own cryopod. She quickly moved to his side, her movements practiced and efficient as she initiated the sequence to reset his chip. The familiar whir of circuits reactivating filled the air, a sound that brought a small measure of relief to Rain.

Andy’s optical sensors flickered to life, and he immediately fixated on Rain. "Is she okay?" he asked, his voice carrying an electronic tinge of concern.

Rain shook her head, fighting back a fresh wave of tears. "No, not yet, Andy. She’s still not awake." Her voice cracked on the last word, betraying her fear.

Andy sat up, scanning the medical equipment readings with rapid precision. "Systems analysis suggests significant trauma. Probability of recovery uncertain without further medical assessment," he reported, though his words were careful, calculated to avoid causing Rain more distress.

Rain nodded, absorbing his words with a heavy heart. "Just stay with me, Andy. Help me land us safely”

As Rain steered the Corbelan ship toward Yvaga, her focus was laser-sharp, every adjustment to the controls calculated and precise despite the emotional storm raging within her. The verdant hues of Yvaga loomed larger and brighter through the viewport, a stark contrast to the bleakness that had preceded this moment.

"We're almost there," Rain said softly, more to herself than to Andy, who was monitoring the ship's systems next to her.

Andy, always sensitive to her mood, replied, "It'll be okay, Rain. You've gotten us this far."

"I just need to know she'll be alright," Rain whispered, her voice carrying a weight that the vastness of space around them seemed to absorb.

As soon as the ship touched down on Yvaga's surface, Rain was a blur of motion, barely waiting for the landing sequence to complete before she was unbuckling and rushing toward the hatch. The ramp hadn’t fully deployed when she started shouting for help.

"Medical team! I need a medical team here now!" Her voice, usually so composed, cracked with urgency.

When the medical team finally burst through the ship's doors, their uniforms a blur of efficiency and urgency, Rain stepped back, allowing them to take charge. She watched with a mixture of fear and determination as they assessed your condition, their expressions giving away little as they worked swiftly and silently.

"Heart rate stable, but unresponsive," one of the doctors murmured, their voice a backdrop to the whirring of machines and the soft beeps of monitors. Another voice chimed in with medical jargon that Rain strained to understand, her gaze flickering between you and the medical staff.

"Will she be okay?" Rain finally managed to choke out the question that had been gnawing at her since they left Jackson's Star. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the doctors seemed to hear her nonetheless.

"We're doing everything we can," one of them replied gently, their eyes meeting Rain's with a mixture of sympathy and professionalism. "She's stable for now. We'll keep you updated."

Relocated to the stark, white room of Yvaga customs, Rain's heart continued to pound, now out of sync with the buzzing fluorescents overhead. Officials moved her from station to station, conducting thorough scans and taking samples, ensuring she carried no pathogens that could threaten their pristine colony. Despite their politeness, their masked faces remained impassive, heightening Rain's sense of isolation and worry.

"And what about the synthetic?" one official inquired, glancing over a digital clipboard as he scrutinized Andy, who stood beside Rain, his usual stoic self.

"He's my brother," Rain asserted, her voice firm despite the undercurrent of fear that he might be taken from her. "I know your laws about synthetics..."

The officer looked up, a slight frown creasing his brow, then relaxed. "Miss, that regulation has been repealed years ago. Your... brother is welcome to stay as long as he abides by our rules, just like any other resident."

Relief washed over Rain, brief but profound, and she squeezed Andy's hand, smiling at him. "Did you hear that? You’re staying." Her voice wavered with emotion, a stark contrast to her usual composure.

Andy nodded, a flicker of what might have been relief passing through his eyes. "I am pleased to remain by your side, Rain."

But as the customs official handed her back her documents, including a new ID card for her life on Yvaga, Rain's thoughts were already racing back to you, lying in the medical bay, your condition unknown. "Thank you," she muttered distractedly, barely hearing the officer’s instructions on local guidelines and curfew times.

With every step towards the medical facility, her pace quickened, driven by a mix of dread and urgency. Upon arrival, she was met by a cool blast of air and the antiseptic smell of the hospital that did nothing to ease her nerves.

"I’m here to see my girlfriend," she told the receptionist, her voice steady but her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

The receptionist typed something into a computer, then looked up with a neutral expression. "You may go in, but please prepare yourself. She hasn’t regained consciousness yet."

Rain’s breath hitched, her feet carrying her down the fluorescent-lit hallway to the room where you lay. The door swung open quietly, and there you were, just as she’d left you, surrounded by beeping machines and IV lines, your breathing steady but unnatural.

She pulled up a chair beside your bed, her hand finding yours, cold and still. "Hey, it’s me," she whispered, her voice cracking as she spoke. "I need you to wake up, okay? Andy’s safe. We’re both here... waiting for you."

Hours turned into days, with Rain talking to you about everything and nothing—her hopes for their new life on Yvaga, the garden she imagined they might cultivate, the quiet evenings they could spend watching Yvaga’s twin suns set. Occasionally, she'd be silent, just watching your chest rise and fall, each breath a small reassurance that you were still with her.

One particularly quiet night, Rain leaned close, her whisper barely audible. "You have to come back to me," she said, her tone a mix of plea and command. "Remember all those plans we made? I can’t do this without you. I can’t lose anyone else."

She stayed there, her head resting beside your hand on the bed, her tears not quite spilling over but close. The weight of everything they’d been through, everything they’d lost and hoped to gain, pressed down on her.

"Please," she murmured as she felt the first tear escape, tracing a warm path down her cold cheek. "I need you. We’re supposed to start over here. Together."

The sterile hum of the medical bay was punctuated by the quiet beep of machines, a constant backdrop to Rain's vigil by your side. It was during one of these long nights, her head resting close to yours, her whispered stories floating through the dimly lit room, that a change occurred. A subtle shift in the rhythm of your breathing, a small furrow in your brow—signs of emerging consciousness that Rain almost didn't dare to hope for.

After what felt like an eternity immersed in silence and darkness, you finally sensed the veil of unconsciousness lifting. Your eyelids fluttered open, meeting the stark brightness of the medical bay on Yvaga. Disoriented, you turned your head slightly, finding Rain's face close to yours, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and relief.

Your eyelids fluttered, a slow, uncertain movement, and then opened. Rain, who had been lost in her thoughts, looked up sharply, her heart skipping a beat. "Baby?" she said softly, her voice a mix of hope and disbelief.

You blinked slowly, disoriented, the shapes and shadows of the room coalescing into forms you recognized but couldn't quite place. "Rain?" Your voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, and you struggled to sit up, confusion written across your face.

"It's okay, take it slow," Rain soothed, her hands gentle on your shoulders, helping you adjust. "You're safe now. We're on Yvaga."

The name didn't mean much to you yet, not with your mind still grappling with the fog of long sleep and recovery. You looked around, trying to piece together the last fragments of memory—flashes of danger, of fear, of desperate actions. "What happened? The others—Kay, Tyler, Bjorn, Navarro... what happened to them?"

Rain's face fell, her eyes dimming with a grief she had held at bay. Taking a deep breath, she reached for your hand, squeezing it tightly. "There was an incident on the ship... there were these creatures" Her voice trembled, and she paused, gathering the strength to continue. "I managed to get you and Andy into cryopods. I... I dealt with it, but..." She swallowed hard, her other hand wiping away silent tears that began to stream down her face.

"The others weren't so lucky," she finished softly, the weight of the loss pressing down on her anew.

Your heart ached, both from your own physical weakness and the pain of the news. You remembered now—the fear, the chaos, the desperate rush to escape. And through it all, Rain, always protecting, always fighting. "You saved us," you whispered, your voice filled with a mix of sorrow for the lost and gratitude for the safety of those who remained.

Rain nodded, more tears falling as she tried to smile through them. "I did what I had to do. I couldn’t let anything happen to you or Andy." She took a shaky breath, trying to compose herself. "We're going to start over here, on Yvaga. Make it count, for them."

As you processed her words, the reality of your new beginning on this strange new world without some of your closest friends, you felt a profound sense of loss but also a deep, resolute determination. Rain was here, Andy was safe, and you were still together. In that, at least, there was some comfort.

"I'm glad you're here," you told her, squeezing her hand in return. "We'll make it count."

Rain nodded, a solemn promise shared between you two. As she settled back into the chair beside your bed, her vigilance unwavering, you knew that whatever challenges Yvaga might hold, you would face them together.

266 notes · View notes