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nurknabo · 4 years

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LINGVA LATINA PER SE ILLVSTRATA - CAPITVLVM SEXTVM

Jen ni kun la ĉapitro sesa, homoj! Aferoj estas malfaciliĝanta pli kaj pli! Ne estas la vortoj la problemo, sed la gramatiko! La libro estas enkondukanta vortojn kies uzo bezonas atenton al gramatiko, kaj scii ĉiujn tiujn regulojn gramatikajn samtempe estas donanta nodon en mia kapo. Tamen, ni havas la metedon apud ni: la ripeto. Ĝi estas tiu kiu faras min enmemorigi la novajn vortojn kaj iliajn regulojn.

Nu, ni iru al la ĉapitra nomo: «Via Latina».

Tiu ĉapitro montras bildon antaŭe la nomo de la ĉapitro. Tiu bildo estas ankaŭ mapo:

Komence, ĝi faris min memori la unuan ĉapitron, kie estas dirita kie unu kaj alia loko estas. Tiu montras la nomojn de la vojoj kiuj ekzistas en Italio, kaj kie ili situas, havante referencojn al la aliaj vojoj. Ekzemple:

La rakonto: Julius, kiel mi "spoileris" (mi tute ne scias la tradukon al Esperanto) en la antaŭa ĉapitro, ne estas en sia domo, li estas iranta al sia domo. Julius en Tuskulo estis. La rakonto diras kun kiu li estis kaj kion ili faris. Julius alvenas hejme, kaj siaj gefiloj kaj edzino elektas sin. Fino de rakonto.

«In Italia multae et magnae viae sunt: via Appia, via Latina, via Flaminia, via Aurelia, via Aemilia. Via Appia est inter Romam et Brundisium.»

Malproksima kaj proksima

Kaj ĉi tie nova vorto aperas: «inter», kiun mi eĉ ne bezonas traduki: en Esperanto estas identa. Kiam oni uzas tiun prepozicion, la vorto post ĝi estos akuzativo.

Do ili aperas: «Ubi est Ostia? Ostia est prope Romam. Tusculum quoque prope Romam est. Brundisium non est prope Romam, sed procul ab Roma.»

Dank'al mapo ni povas scii kio la frazo signifis. Ni vidas ankaŭ ke post prope la vorto estas akuzativo, kaj post procul, ablativo. Mi ne komprenas la logikon malantaŭ la uzo de akuzativo kaj ablativo post prepozicioj, se ekzistas io.

Kaj pli da prepozicioj: circum.

Ĉi tie okazis konfuzo en mia kapo. Vidu la bildon:

Kio okazis estis ke mi ne komprenis la kunteksto de la frazoj ĉar mi konsideris «circum» verbo, ne prepozicio. Sed tiam mi fine rimarkis kie mi eraris kaj komprenis la frazojn. Se ĝi volis diri ke iu marŝas, la bildo aspektus kiel:

Mi pensis ke la sago signifis vojon kiu iu marŝis, tio estas, iu ĉirkaŭis la urbon. Sed, afero kiun mi ne memoris estas ke, kiam la libro volas diri ke iu marŝas, ĝi uzas punkton por reprezenti iun, kio ne okazis tiukaze.

Komprenante la signifon, ĉio faciliĝis.

«Circum oppida muri sunt. Circum Romam est murus antiquus. In muro Romano duodecim portae sunt.»

Mi elmetis unu pli frazon por montri ke nova nombro estas. La livro instruis tiun kiel sekvas: duo-decem = XXII (12). Mi ne povis ne memori Esperanto, kiu uzas ekzakte la saman formon por skribi nombroj, sed reverse: dek du.

Ab et ad

Tio estas la ĉapitro de la prepozicioj! Ni jam konas ab, kiu mi pensas ke signifas ke io proksimas al io. Kaj ad? Ĉio simpliĝas pro la bildoj:

Simpla. Kaj mi denove min demandas kial akuzativo kaj kial ablativo...

Ĉi-kaze, Julio kaj siaj servistoj iras de urbo al sia domo.

Demando: ĉu mi povus uzi ex anstataŭe? «ex oppido». Kompreneble, la sento ŝanĝiĝus. Sed ĉu ĝustas? Mi ne scias kial en tiu kazo oni ne uzis ex, sed ab... Ĉu Julio ne venas el la urbo? Sed eble ex ne uzitas ĉar la libro ne volis esti tre specifa, aŭ, en tiaj kazoj, ne necesas ĝin fari.

La verbo iri

La verbo iri! Tiu verbo en la latina estas nerekta, kio signifas ke, depende de la persono al kiu ĝi rilatas, ĝi ŝanĝiĝas tute:

«Iulius ab oppido ad villam suam it. Dominus et servi ab oppido ad villam eunt.»

Mi scivolas kial oni volis fari nerektajn verbojn... Kial ŝanĝi tiom verbon kiam oni konjugas ĝin?

Kaj novaj verboj

«Quattuor servi dominum et duos saccos ab oppido ad villam vehunt.» Kio estas vehunt? La libro klarigas: vehunt = portant (ab... ad...). Tio estas, vehunt signifas «(ili) alportas».

Pli da prepozicioj? Kial ne?

«Ante» kaj «post». Ante = antaŭ; post = post. Nu, mi pensas ke mi ne bezonis klarigi ilin, ĉu ne? Post ili oni ankaŭ devas uzi akuzativon.

Sed kion mi volas priparoli estas tio:

Ab fariĝas ā, sed nur antaŭ vokaloj kaj la litero h. Sed samtempe mi povas uzi ā kun konsonantoj... Kio?? Mi honeste ne komprenis. Kial ne konservi nur ab? Latina, mi ne komprenas vin.

La tri «kie»

La latina havas tri «kie»: quo, ubi kaj unde. Quo = de kie; ubi = kie; unde = kien. Mi jam konis ilin ĉar mi vidis en Duolingo.

Poste mi eksciis ke oni povas diri de kie kaj kien iras (ab... ad...) sen uzi prepoziciojn, sed ankoraŭ uzante la ablativon kaj akuzativon. Ekzemple: «Unde venit Cornelius? Is non Tusculo, sed Roma venit. Qui it? Cornelius non Romam, sed Tusculum it.» Ŝajnas ke la latina decidis ne havi prepoziciojn simple por simpligi la skribadon aŭ prononcon. Eble klarigas kial oni skribas ā, ne ab.

Sed aŭ autem?

Jes, alimaniero diri sed. Mi pensas ke ĝi pli emfazas ol sed. Vidu: «Medus est malus servus. Davus autem bonus servus est.»

Bone, tio ne estis nenio kompare kun tio kion mi vidis poste. Unue, ni parolu pri...

Locativus

Lokativo indikas lokon kie ago okazas. La lokativo prezentitaj ĉi tie samas al la genitiva kazo: «Ubi est? Romae est. Ubi sunt? Tusculi sunt.»

Bone, aferoj estis iranta bone, la novaj reguloj gramatikaj ne estis malfacilas. Sed io aperas kaj faras mian kapon explodi:

«Iulius ab Urso et Davo portantur.» Unuvide mi ne tute komprenis. Sed mi havas Grammatica Latina. Tie, ĝi diras:

Verbum activum et passivum

Jes, amikoj, aktiva kaj pasiva voĉo. Kompreneble, mi jam sciis kio estis, sed mi ne komprenis kiel ĝi funkcias en la latina. Kial ab? La problemo esti ke mi provis traduki ab. Unue, sen sukceso, due, ankaŭ ne. Post kvar provojn, mi atingis ion. Mi ne trovis kiel ab, kiu mi komence pensis ke signifis nur «proksime al io/iu», funkciis ĉi tie, sed mi almenaŭ povis kompreni. «Julio estas alportita de Urso kaj Davo», estas la traduko de la supra frazo. La temo, pasiva kaj aktiva voĉo, ne malfacilas, sed kiel ĝi funkcias en la latina jes.

Verboj. Verboj kiuj finiĝas kun -at kaj -et estas bone, sed estas du verboj kiuj finiĝas kun -it, kaj ambaŭ havas malsamajn deklinaciojn. Tio estas, la verbo 3 en la pasiva voĉo singulara kaj plurala estas: -itur; -untur. La verbo 4, ankaj singulara kaj plurala pasiva voĉo: -ītur; -iuntur. Mi povas rekoni ilin, sed mi vidas ilin tiel, sed mi ne rekonus ĉu ĝi estas la tria aŭ la kvara konjunkcio nur vidante la ĝian formon "bazan". Grandan problemon mi havas. Kaj la libro ne klarigas kiel diferencigi ilin. Kion fari?

Ab ankaŭ malaperas tiukaze, ĉar mi vidis: «Cornelius non est fessus, nam is equo vehitur.»

Alia maniero diri quia

Mi ne scias kial ĝi okazas, sed okazas. Quia (ĉar) nun ne plu aperas; nun ni havas nam. «Iulius solus non est, nam quattuor servi apud eum sunt.» Nu, mi ne eĉ havas ion por paroli...

Ĉu mi estas preskaŭ malkovrantas la tradukon de la libro-titolo?

La nomon ni jam scias: Lingua Latina Per Se Illustrata. «Lingua Latina» kaj «Illustrata» mi jam scias kio estas, sed «per se» estas mistero. SED, tio mistero ŝajnas esti proksima al solviĝo. Nu, unue kunteksto: Medo, servisto de Julio, kiu nun ne ŝajnas esti plu, ĉar li diras poste ke Julio ne estas lia estro, iras al Romo. Sed, antaŭ ol li eniras en Romo, li trairi la pordegojn de la urbo. Kaj vorto nova estas prezentita al ni:

La vorto per. Kaj klare ni vidas ke la traduko estas «tra». La vorto se, de la titolo, ŝajnas al mi esti refleksiva pronomo, kiel «si» en Esperanto (La viro vidas sin). «Sed “tra” signifas loko en kiu movo komenciĝas, aŭ rilatante al tempo», oni povas diri. Sed per memorigas min pri la itala, kie per signifas «por». Sed tio konkludo estas tre facila... Mi ne pensas ke estas korekta. Sed, se mi farus sugeston, la traduko estus ion kiel: «Latina Lingvo Ilustrata de si (mem)». Faras senton, se vi vidi ke la libro instruas la latinan sed en la latina.

Medo en Romo

Mi diros kio okazis al Medo, ĉar en la sekva ĉapitro ni vidos kion li faras tie. Li iris tien por viziti sian amikinon Lidia. Bone, tio estas ĉio kio mi povas diri. En la sekva ĉapitro, ni vidos pli.

Kaj ni finigas la ĉapitron. Nun mi skribos frazon en la latina. «Iulius non in equo, sed in lectica est et ab servis, quos fessi sunt, portantur. Iis villam Iulii eunt.»

Ne eĉ demandu min ĉu tio frazo ĝustas, ĉar nek mi scias.

#Lingua Latina Per Se Illustrata #Chapter 6 #Latin #Learning Latin #Latin language #Esperanto #Esperanto language #Eo #Language #Learning languages

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clansayeed · 4 years

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Bound by Choice ― I.i. The Godmaker and the Nile

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ PART I ⥽

— Rome, 44 B.C.

The Roman Empire has reached a tipping point. A time of peace will drown in the blood of Caesar. Lovers open their home to hostiles, a seer withers under the burden of knowledge, and a lotus blooms in the moonlight.

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Valdas welcomes his Maker to Rome.

WARNING: this chapter contains explicit sexual content

note: This piece briefly references the events of Choices book: A Courtesan of Rome

[READ IT ON AO3]

Rome, 44 B.C.

“Would you abide anyone else keeping such ill time?”

“That’s not how this works, my love, and you know this.”

“How dare I expect a guest in our home to arrive in a timely manner.”

If there is more to be said Isseya does not say it; protests dying on her lips the moment she catches sight of red eyes and a dark brow arched particularly high.

He watches them fondly though — remembers being her age, the swell and ebb of passions in the body tumultuous to say the least. And, of course, their love knows it comes from a place of deep consideration and respect. They would never dare do him such an insult.

Cynbel comes up behind the pair of them, arms resting on waists both slender and cut of hard muscle. Leans in to inhale the breath of them with the faintest whisper of lips on their skin.

“Forgive her, Our Beloved One, she knows not of the matters she speaks.”

Which is the wrong thing to say; earns him a flash of bared teeth and her silken body wrenching from his touch. “Speak for me again and lose your tongue.”

“Not my favorite of your newfound habits, Isseya.”

“It keeps you quiet.”

Valdas croons at the bickering pair of them. All is forgiven in his touch.

“She’s gotten mouthy, Cynbel.”

“Really,” rolling his eyes, “I hadn’t noticed.”

When the anticipated lectica arrives over the sloping crest of hill at the edges of their estate attitudes change. Cynbel comes to Valdas’ left hand, Isseya at the right. Behind them the heartbeats of servants made to work well into the midnight hour rumble like dozens of tiny footsteps. Not that he holds any lingering attachment to the withering lives of mortals — but he hopes their guest doesn’t put them in need of even more help.

Isseya’s temper does that well enough on its own.

He chances a look out of the corner of his eye—finds he isn’t alone in the concern echoing in his younger lover’s dark gaze. Both of them roaming aching looks over their Maker’s expression for any hint or sign of discontent.

Godmaker or no, they would see themselves ripped limb from limb if it meant pleasing their beloved. Even going so far as to see the one who Made their Maker cast out from Rome, the Empire… even the coil of the living.

But they had their chance to talk Valdas out of allowing his Maker—a man never once mentioned before his announced arrival—under their roof. They had tried, and they had failed.

Now they must suffer the consequences.

The figure who steps out of the lectica is… not entirely what Cynbel had pictured when he was forced to accept the man as more than a figment. There’s a part of him that smirks proud when he sees his Beloved is taller. As though that matters somehow.

He, of course, towers over them all. But there lies nothing new.

Pale skin and dark hair that falls in well-groomed waves over his shoulders; a beautiful face framing eyes that bring to mind the far-off memory of sunny afternoons without a cloud in sight. The Godmaker is, as they all are, a creature of perfection. He would expect nothing less.

Though it would have been easier to be smug had he been a hideous cur of a thing. Vulcan, perhaps; powerful but wretched among his kind.

“Gaius,” says Valdas—and in a voice only his lovers would know as falsely placating—with arms offered wide and the barest bow of his head, “too long, too long.”

With pink lips, Gaius looks upon Cynbel’s Lord and God with a satisfied bemusement and smile. But he does not approach. Turns instead to brush aside the thick lectica curtains with the backs of his knuckles. When a hand grabs his from the vehicles depths Cynbel feels Valdas grow tense beside him. Knows no doubt Isseya’s anger has already tripled her wrath.

Who does he think he is, bringing a courtesan with him to a house not his own? The fucking gall.

There’s a familiarity to the vision of her that Cynbel must suffer. Complexion rich and warm with a dark-haired crown that falls to her shoulders. There they are bathed in moonlight and the woman’s eyes of kohl and sheer dress have her more suited to a morning the likes of which none gathered could ever see again.

All things that remind him of smoke and ash, of flames leaping to the skies and screams echoing from the deepest wells to the harbors near.

With the Godmaker’s attention turned to his whore, Cynbel reaches out to brush his fingertips along the inside of his lover’s wrist. The touch isn’t returned — doesn’t have to be. They have known one another in ways that would make the Roman pantheon tremble. It is enough.

“I offer to you your Queen Kamilah,” says the Godmaker without so much as a fucking glance, “and to you my darling, my first son Valdemaras and his line.”

His Queen. On the contrary, Cynbel was getting awfully tired of titles and royals and the whole mess of it. First Caesar and his Dictator Perpeuto nonsense, now this?

He came from a land before kings and emperors and dictator perpetui. What were kings compared to the wrath of gods? Better gods than the Romans imagined up, too. Ones who were not so easily swooned by gilded temples and soft gifts of incense, jewels, and other wealth.

Real gods demanded blood. And oh what riches they would give the one who offered the most…

The nod Valdas had given his Maker was minimal; the look he gives his supposed queen is even more so. Something cold in his dark gaze eases, though, as she spares him the same physical affection but has the decency to address him “Domine.”

Their God places a hand at either of their backs; ever one to flaunt his wealth. “Cynbel of the Riedones,” who bows because that is his place beneath them—she who joins him, “and Isseya of the Veneti.”

“Welcome to Rome.” And she hides her hatred of her role in this place well; gestures to the doors to the main house open behind them. Where candle light flickers and the smell of baked dates wafts on the wind. “A meal has been —”

“We have much to discuss, Valdemaras.”

Their darling stands frozen as if struck by a heavy hand. Interrupted, and on her own property. Some have been murdered for far less where they stand.

For the barest moment Cynbel, too, loses himself — lets his carefully schooled expression falter into a twisted snarl of anger and slit pupils. His mistake and not one to be repeated, not as Gaius glances between them utterly disinterested.

“Have you something to say?” And when they do not answer; “I thought as much.”

His hosts aren’t spared a second look. Could be no more than statues as he passes them with a flourish of his military cloak, his exotic Kamilah at his heels, and “Valdemaras, to me!” barked as a master summons his hound.

The remaining lovers are left standing on their own doorstep; nothing more than strangers. This is a new side to Valdas — one Cynbel has never seen… and wasn’t that a blessing he never knew he had.

Isseya pushes her way into his arms — Cynbel takes her gladly. Presses his lips on the seam of her hair and forehead and lets them linger.

“No wonder he never spoke of what made him.”

“Not all are as lucky as we.”

Her blunted teeth nip at his collarbone. “We were blessed by a god.”

“And no divine gifts come without a price. Consider this our Herculean trial.”

With her mouth twisted in the way it is nothing good could ever come of it — her sharp tongue an admirable trait in passion but easily confused for a dagger anywhere else — so he stifles her with an open-mouthed kiss; drinks in her words lest they get her killed.

The doors to the exedra are closed long enough for Isseya to grow bored of waiting, to force Cynbel’s hand in giving her a suitable enough distraction that she not risk their lover’s ire with foolish acts. And as things usually go when any form of punishment is involved the pair end up falling entangled on their bed; bare skin like fine art under the steady eyes of a dozen candles and in knots of flesh. Impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

He leaves her smeared with blood and wine and other lovely things; Venus depicted in the fashion of those ravenous Old Gods. Has the decency to wait until she is sound asleep before gathering himself in a cloak for his nightly journey into the winding depths of Rome herself.

Can’t help himself when he stops at the doors still shut tight. Valdas’ muffled voice interrupted by his Maker — frequently.

The sight of Kamilah, a bright stain against the dark frescos that decorate the walls, is some comfort at the very least. They may not be worthy to disgrace the Godmaker’s presence but neither is she.

“Know this,” he waits until she looks him in the eyes before he says it, “among my beloveds and I you will never be named Queen.”

He would take the shift of honey to crimson in her eyes to be a challenge — were he not familiar with all of the other signs screaming out to him from her body. Familiar to him both before this life and no doubt long after it. For hunger is a pain not even the immortal can escape.

“Do so with care, but sup upon the staff if you need.” He expects her to take up the invitation right away and when she does not… “What, do you need the Godmaker’s permission for that?”

“I answer to no one.”

“Ah, she speaks,” and Cynbel isn’t shy in showing what amusement he gets from her frustration, “and here I was starting to wonder if she even understood Latin.”

“It is not… my birth tongue, no.”

“No, that would be the tongue of the Imperator’s little Pharaoh-wife, yes?”

She may have been looking at him before, but now Kamilah seems to see him for the first time. The hunger there, ever-lurking as it always did with their kind, but wrangled back against sharp intelligence.

Reminds him a bit of Isseya, to be honest.

“Do all Romans speak so crassly about the Pharaoh?”

“Are you daring to assume me Roman?”

“He who speaks Latin in the city of Rome thinks himself anything other than a Roman?”

She is not outwardly wrong, and that she speaks her mind is a refreshing thing from an outsider. He loves them dearly, his God and his kin, but three hundred years is ample time for mortality to begin to bore him.

“No, they do not,” he finally answers, “but I have seen the splendor of Alexandria with mine own eyes. That she thinks Rome more amenable is… not a proof of her wit, at the least.”

So much of the moonlight has already been wasted waiting for belated guests. Any longer here dawdling and he won’t make it to his appointment.

So Cynbel does the unthinkable. He offers her his arm.

“I have an engagement I cannot miss. You can drink your fill of the streets. My Beloved One and the Godmaker may be hours yet.”

Kamilah stands but leaves his offer untouched. “And your wife?”

“My what?”

“The lady—Isseya.”

The mere thought of it—enough to curdle the last remaining drops of his pleasure. “— is not my wife. Worry not, my beloved is well-filled in more ways than one and needs to sleep it off.”

A quip even the strongest of wills could not resist. One that makes the woman recoil from him as if burned by sunlight and makes Cynbel throw his head back in laughter. Something the men with their whispers and secrets can no doubt hear.

It stands to reason Valdas and this Kamilah are of the same ilk, but as Cynbel learns on the road to town that could not be further from the truth.

“No wonder you look wasted away,” and he actually does feel sorry for her and the hunger gnawing at her flesh and bones, “the world is not as it was when I was Turned… armies marching across the world this way and that. How irksome it must be to fill your newborn belly.”

Kamilah’s brow ticks slightly. It does that a lot, he’s noticed. “I want for nothing, and take what I desire.”

“Or does the Godmaker offer it to you on lavish plates?”

As the letica brings them further through the winding chambers of Rome’s heart she watches, doesn’t answer until they are deep enough within.

“Why do you call him such?”

“What name do you carry for him?”

No matter how many bastard babes are born of Caesar and Cleopatra the reality remains the same. Two lands, two empires at war with one another for so long cannot be united by such meager means as legal marriages or parentage. The Romans will always want more. The Egyptians will never let them have it. That much is known.

And seen, too, in the way Kamilah turns away from the sights of the city with revulsion. “In my lands he is known as the Undying Centurion. No more than a rumor whispered among encampments to keep one alert through the night watch.”

“Doubtful that rumors have such sharp teeth.”

“As I learned firsthand.” Does she know the ghost of her hand across her throat, fingertips lingering on gold glittering there; a priceless apology?

Their eyes meet across the darkness of the space. Finally Cynbel shrugs.

“He is the Godmaker because he is, simple as that. He that gave blood and life to Our Beloved, the Made-God Valdemaras.”

“Gods cannot be made.”

“No?” Memories of the old days brighten in his eyes, bring a wistful smirk to his lips as his tongue snakes out to taste the memory of bloodshed long gone. “Such a shame. I shall have to break the news to him kindly.”

He owes this woman nothing and no word likewise. Her people have had gods and temples long before she was born; will no doubt have them long after her immortality has run out. Unless she is of wicked luck — a great possibility judging by her sharp wit.

She could never understand life before her great empire. The kind of life led by wanderers; by those the Romans called heathens and Gauls. How it felt to find a voice in the neverending silence of solitude — to have it call her name. To have it desire her, crave her; taste of her and let her taste in return.

Because his business is better left uninterrupted, and because Kamilah draws the eyes of every beggar and market keep the moment he helps her out onto the streets proper, he undoes the fastening on his cloak and places it neatly over her shoulders. Leaves no room for arguments as he waves off the carriers and begins the now-familiar journey onward.

At least she can keep up.

He watches her turn her nose up at several of the beggars that slumber on the streets of their route. “Tell me Alexandria has no urchins and I will call you a liar.”

“I’m sure they are plenty.”

“Then try not to look so fucking insulted by their presence. For however long you and the Godmaker stay in Rome creatures such as these will be your lifeblood.”

Starve for long enough and one learns to turn away nothing, not even the skeletal throats of Rome’s disgraces.

His words hang in the heavy night air between them. Nothing more than a mention but the question, once begged, cannot be undone. How long will they be here? How long will the home of his darling and Their Beloved be spoiled by their presence?

And what toll will it take on Valdas; who already seemed weaker at the mere thought of his Maker taking breath nearby?

“You share his bed.”

To Kamilah’s credit, she isn’t phased. “Indeed.”

“And his secrets, do you share those as well?”

“Would I share them with you if I did?”

He looks at her sharply. “Why have you come to Rome?” Why have you come to ruin everything we’ve built?

But the answer lies not on her lips; rather in her gaze. The warm glow of the nearest torches casting shadows deep on her cheek and a defiance that he’s sure was part of her allure — part of what the Godmaker saw in her.

She doesn’t know, and it’s killing her.

“I see.” Stepping back; continuing along the cobbled streets as they twist and turn deeper into the labyrinth of poverty and strife. All familiar sights to him by now.

“How much further?” Kamilah asks eventually and the lisp of her words is familiar. Even the filth of urban living cannot quench her thirst.

“Patience, little lotus, patience.”

They arrive. Cynbel comes to an abrupt stop in front of a darkened doorway; the wood thin and torch still smelling heavy of scorched oil. Behind him Kamilah takes in the length of the alley with a furrowed brow. This part of the city is heavy; with death as much as life.

Both are hard realities to face. “It will fade with time,” he tells her unprompted; doesn’t know why… maybe because he needs her quiet, complacent — maybe because he remembers the youth of this life less fondly than the rest, “see a lifetime or two and their faces blur until you look at them as you would a beast before supper.”

He raps harsh knuckles against the door. Thin wood trembles — holds.

“How many lifetimes have you seen?”

Cynbel doesn’t answer.

The door opens to a young man, olive face messily framed by dark curls and eyes still trying desperately to cling to sleep. Cynbel knows he’s expected, but says nothing. Has been here enough times to know this one, the third son if memory serves, apprentices early with the tanner.

“Domine,” he greets, steps aside as always to allow entry but the sight of Kamilah behind makes him falter.

“I trust my guest will be shown the same hospitality.” It isn’t a question. The boy nods; silently takes in her beauty before he remembers his place and moves out of the way.

As with most doorways he ducks over the threshold as he enters. Feels Kamilah keep pace beside him as the tanner’s boy fumbles through the dark to lead them onward. The vampires accompanying him, however, have no such trouble.

The boy stops in front of a closed door and opens it without announcement. “Nona, he’s here.”

The rest of the house may have found rest but Nona, his appointment, has not. Likely that she hasn’t in some time judging by the dark circles under her eyes and the sluggish way she looks at her visitors from the middle of her bedroll.

She rubs the heels of her palms into her eyes and blinks away her sleeplessness. Moves to clamor her frail body up but Cynbel raises a hand to stop her. “Don’t exert yourself. I apologize for my tardiness.”

“I knew you would be late.”

“Mm, I should have expected such. I have —”

“— a guest.” I knew that, too, says her tone.

When the visitors are fully inside young Nona’s room, the boy is content to leave them; is always content to leave his youngest sibling in the company of a strange man with how well he pays the family.

Rather he than another, Cynbel justifies.

“Before you go I have a request,” he ignores the speeding of the man’s young and struggling heart, “bring your elder brother. My guest has need of him.”

Kamilah takes offense, that much is obvious. But the brother nods with a mumbled “yes, domine,” and departs.

“I promised you a meal for joining me.”

“What are we here for?” When Nona lights the candle nearest her Kamilah takes the girl’s gaunt face in fully; the blazing in her eyes purely human, purely a woman’s concern. “Cynbel, enough.”

“You do not command me.”

“If you harm her —”

She’s cut off by a trembling Roman hand. Cynbel takes it in his own, brushes his thumb over her knuckles until the spasms cease. For all of the venom in Kamilah’s warning Nona does not look at her with fear or fright. At first Cynbel had taken it to be the ignorance of youth but now — now he knows better.

Now he knows she is simply too tired to be afraid.

He takes his usual seat beside her and, as always, Nona lets him carry the heavy burden of her. Closes her eyes as his fingers card through her hair and breathes — so very, very human.

“You look unwell.”

“A fever, nothing more.” But it’s a lie. Told not for his benefit but for hers. Willful ignorance to the thing that’s eating her alive. He can do nothing more for her than he already has — not without gaining his lovers’ attentions. And this, her, is better left a secret for everyone’s sake.

But Kamilah… well. There’s opportunity in youth. Valdas saw that in him, as he sees it in her. Perhaps loyalties have not been cemented just yet.

Obviously the Godmaker cannot keep all of those he creates chained.

“Have you the strength to keep our appointment then?” he asks; voice barely above a whisper.

The ninth daughter sighs—sags with the weight of it—and picks herself up from him. “Yes.”

Kamilah, now no more than an insect on the wall, watches the girl as she brushes aside golden hair, places two fingers on the vampire’s temple. A shudder overtakes her and he feels the coil of the woman’s muscles, readying herself to break the building’s foundations to separate them.

“Ease yourself, Kamilah Sayeed, the Golden Son will not harm me yet.”

And doesn’t that do it — freezes her like painted marble in shock and building confusion.

“How… do you know my name?”

“Nona here knows many things.” He answers. Leaves the daughter of Egypt breathless.

“A seer?”

“Of a sort. She knows that which was, is, and may yet be.”

They are watched with rapture, Kamilah taking in the full understanding of what this young girl is, of what they do here.

But before she can speak again the door opens at the return of her brother, now joined by another; similar in face but taller, more filled around the edges.

Gingerly Cynbel removes Nona’s hand and he nods to Kamilah. “Go and feed. I trust the Godmaker has taught you how and I do not need to hold your hand.”

“You are mad — to think I would leave you alone with her.”

“Didn’t you hear the girl?” He certainly had.

He will not harm me… yet.

Yet. A new and ne’er-before-spoken prophecy. An answer to a question he did not yet know to ask for.

Perhaps it is the presence of so many eyes that causes the younger vampire to relent; though with no attempt to mask her unwillingness. Or, more likely, the hunger has simply become too much. Draws her to the newcomer like a moth to a torch out of the bedroom and back the way they had come.

This time he closes the door himself.

Cynbel sags against the doorway; an exhaustion and release only three people have ever been given privilege to see. One of them is in this room — and is only allowed so because she is not long for this world. He takes comfort in that.

“It was as you said. The Godmaker came and he did not come alone.”

He turns to see Nona’s eyes swimming with tears. How they sparkle in the flickering flame; how they dance. They bring him to her side in an instant and she does not fear what he is — not anymore. Lets them fall because she knows he’s there to brush them away before they pool at her chin.

“Each time… I hope — I hope I’m wrong. Just once. All it will take is once.”

Sometimes he wishes that, too. Especially given what she told him the last time they met. Her words echoing like the bells of war in his head.

“Until that day there is work to be done, sweet girl.” Not that she’s given a choice; he takes her hand and places it back at his temple. No more distractions, no more excuses. “You promised.”

One he intends for her to keep until her dying breath. Whether it come tonight or a decade from now.

And when her head hangs he holds that up, too. Grasps her chin firm and clear.

“You promised me, Nona. You promised.”

“I promised.”

“Yes, you did. And I will not leave until I get my answer. I need to know, Nona darling. I need to know the events you foresaw; why—how—or-or when, when Valdas is going to kill me.”

That the brother is left teetering on the edge of his own grave doesn’t come as a surprise when Cynbel finally allows Nona to rest.

“Too busy pouting petulant to heal him?” He scoffs and pushes Kamilah aside, hauls the boy up carelessly by the arm. The wounds aren’t messy — she learned how to make a clean and almost untraceable kill at the very least.

Listen to him. He sounds like a tamed beast. Where oh where have gone the days of cracked-open ribs and hearts left to bloom bloody in the sunlight?

He’s met with no more than a kohl-rimmed glare, huffs an angry “fine, I’ll do it myself,” before opening a fanged mouth and puncturing the flesh of his palm. There’s nothing ‘concerned’ in the way he smears his blood across the boy’s neck and drops him back on the stone bench to rest.

“I need information only she can provide. So for now — try not to let her brother bleed out like a suckling pig!”

“Raise your voice at me and learn what happens to those who do.”

Raw as he is her attitude is the last thing he needs. Needs, instead, the comfort of bodies tangled with his very much alive and very much not rotted from the inside out. I won’t let it happen. I won’t, I won’t.

I’ll save us both, sweet girl. This vision will not come true.

His rage is blind; finds him with a hand around Kamilah’s neck squeezing just shy of popping the damned thing off, finds him back in the alley with splintered wood digging needles into his bare arms.

“Go on then,” he seethes, can taste the blood on her breath so close to him and doesn’t shy away from the cravings that bring out a harder edge, “belly full and the Godmaker as your own — you may very well put up a decent fight.

“But I’ve been doing this for over three hundred years, little newborn. When it comes down to it, you simply will not survive me.”

Maybe she will. If Nona’s vision comes to pass — most certainly she will.

Cynbel wrenches himself away; looks down at his hands and can’t stop — can’t stop seeing his own blood slick there, the feeling of cold steel sliding warm inside him. It makes him feel weak; fragile in a way the hunter had thought himself incapable of any longer.

Finite in a way only they could cure.

When his eyes flicker up he sees Kamilah standing there, unwounded, and a cool clarity to that which looks back. Young though she may be, hers was never a body to inhabit a fool.

She knows. Maybe not the truth, maybe not even the vision both he and the little seer have suffered thrice now. But she knows something has him scared.

I won’t. I can’t.

I —

Each time he visits Nona he knows. Knows the eyes he feels on the back of his neck with each brand his lovers burn onto his lips in kisses belong to Kamilah. Knows that the little lotus with her honey-golden gaze and her silent stoicism is well aware of his activities even if Valdas and Isseya are not. That each time he returns before the first dregs of morning light bleed into the skies above this strange youngling creature knows more of him than the bodies with whom he has shared everything.

How relieving it is to have that; not to bear the weight of his burden alone. To feel as though if he ever did need to confide in another — not that he would — that he could corner her rather than leave the thoughts to fester and rot in his head.

The Godmaker and his Queen take to Rome with ease. Cynbel and Isseya watch in the shadows at each forum, each congregation as Valdas is forced to flaunt his Maker to yet another member of the Senate, yet another decorated General and heralded soldier. Gaius wins each of them over with ease. And when Kamilah finally chooses to open her pretty mouth so does she.

“Another foreign delight to grace these halls,” muses a portly scholar over the lip of his wine, “though one must wonder if she carries the same wit.”

Judging by the look she skillfully hides behind the curtain of her hair, one must not wonder at all.

As Cynbel and Isseya are never far from their god’s side, so is Kamilah similarly close to Gaius. The five of them becoming something of a fixture in Roman society.

So when she is absent on one of the most important nights of the season it’s not something to be missed. As if Isseya’s glee could be contained.

Dutifully at her side — they always must play the married patrons in these affairs, it’s become something of a game between the pair of them — Cynbel watches Marc Antony take his Isseya’s hand to bestow a kiss to the back.

“Your hospitality may very well outlive us,” croons the General against her skin; Isseya preens under the attention—always has, “I had hoped to attend one of your forums upon my return and, may I say, it far exceeds my expectations.”

“What is beauty without a gathering to appreciate it?” And maybe lesser men would feel the first knots of jealousy in the way she looks at the General through half-lidded eyes. But both of her lovers know this game she plays; that she would just as soon bed him as she would eat his tongue right out of his mouth.

Honestly he can see the appeal.

Antony’s head raises to roam eyes over Cynbel, who takes the look in stride. There is always an exchange of power to be had in moments like these. To challenge that exchange is to challenge a man personally. Sometimes there’s nothing he would like better.

He knows the things whispered when they think the sun-haired man who towers over them cannot hear. That they gossip about his sexual activities is no insult to him, but rather an unknowing insult to their own ignorance.

But they are Roman. Ignorance is as much a part of their trade as war and conquering.

He greets Cynbel, “Pathicus,” yet the smirk falls from his expression at the near-delighted grin it pulls to light.

Would the Godmaker not threaten wrath for ruining the evening, Cynbel would take immense pleasure in affronting the man further. Perhaps falling to his knees with a sweeping gesture to lift up the leathers of Antony’s uniform to publicly suck his --

“Here I was under the impression we were to be graced with beauty this night. Yet all I see is Marc Antony.”

Valdas speaks to the man as an equal when he approaches—Godmaker at his side with the same smugness radiating from him as always. Their Beloved has always spoken to the General as if they were old friends but such is how the game is played.

His lovers know the truth; know the only reason Antony respects his outsider’s opinion in the Senate is for the military clout he earned in order to make them comfortable here.

“No mortal man can have it all.” The men clasp hands in familiar greeting. Out of everyone gathered for their salon only the four vampires present notice the momentary strain of Antony’s muscles — how he tries and fails to win in a silent contest of wills.

“Not that it stops him from trying.”

Valdas withdraws for no sake of his own. Steps back as he’s done a dozen times this last fortnight and offers up Gaius on a marble dais.

“I present Gaius Augustine, my mentor.”

Antony looks between them with a curious frown. Comes to the same conclusion as everyone has insofar; out of the pair of them one would not assume Valdas as the junior of the pair.

But unlike the others Antony has the stones to address it. “Not quite removed from the prime of your youth, Augustine?”

“My life has been blessed by many gods, and in many ways,” Gaius does not allow Antony the option of turning away his hand, “but the pleasure is mine. I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time, General.”

Valdas gestures wordlessly for a servant bearing a jug of wine to approach; gives both men a smile and dismissing nod before he turns to bask in the eyes of his devoted ones.

Isseya’s irritated frown isn’t lost on him, brings him to her side with an arm swept around her waist and lips tickling at her temple. “Ease yourself, darling. You look positively murderous.”

“Am I out of place to think it?” she snaps; uses the folds of Cynbel’s toga to mask the intertwining of their fingers at a shared side.

“Of course not. Were I a mortal to have heard the word uttered with mine own ears he’d not have a mouth with which to say it a second time.”

Fuck, he’s so in love with them. “It means nothing to me.”

“It does to them,” Isseya jerks her chin to the gathering of hogs called men of status and learning, “which ultimately is all that matters.”

“Not tonight.”

And it’s the first time his lovers have seen the Valdemaras they worship since the Godmaker’s arrival. Cool and calm and in control of everyone; everything around him because he will always be generations ahead of even the brightest mind.

The sight is as beautiful as it is terrifying. Beautiful in that any flicker of the vengeful god he fell in love with is desperately needed, and terrifying in that there’s a part of Cynbel that thinks — against his wishes — of Nona’s prophecy looming ever-closer.

Valdas sips his wine as he continues — low enough that only they may hear; “The only thing that matters tonight is securing the attentions of both Antony and the Pharaoh Cleopatra. If they cannot be convinced to be complicit they must be ignorant — such is our only chance.”

Cynbel has a hard time imagining Antony joining the ranks of conspirators that Valdas has aligned himself with. “It is decided then?”

“If not in words, in spirit.”

“I heard a courtesan attempted the same act mere days ago.” Isseya smiles at the stares both her lovers give her; basks in them. “You have to admire a woman such — think us demure and reap a barren harvest.”

“Rest assured, Isseya my sweet, not even fools would call you demure.”

His words earn a snort from Cynbel, who quickly covers it up with a large bite of stuffed date plucked from the closest tray. Lucky for them all attention is being rapidly soaked up by the final guest to arrive for the evening.

Not every day even they host a real Queen.

Isseya takes her leave of them with grace; parts the crowd with her mere presence and begins the well-rehearsed placations of the Egyptian beauty.

Neither Cynbel nor Valdas miss the hunger that gleams in Gaius’ eyes; bright even with the vast room between them — a chasm and the Godmaker the hydra at its bottom.

His god takes him bodily; fills the void left by her with every inch of him. That he does so without a drop of concern for the thoughts of others will always baffle him. It shouldn’t.

Valdemaras always gets what he desires.

“Shame the little lotus would miss tonight of all nights.” He sighs; an afterthought. Only in that it reminds him of his appointment come the next night.

“All this care to conceal ourselves and you would choose now, with the rewards close at hand, to expose us?”

There’s an edge of surprise he isn’t expecting and it’s enough to tear him away from brief glimpses of turquoise veils and the sudden thundering of over a dozen heartbeats. Valdas, too, seems unsure of what he means.

But before he can speak, Valdas gives an “ah,” and understands.

“Kamilah and the Pharaoh are kin. Distant cousins, if I’m remembering correctly. To see her here after she was presumed dead is a risk Gaius will avoid at all costs.”

Suddenly her lashing tongue back that first night makes all the more sense. Though…

“If he worries so about exposure perhaps he ought not to leave so many bodies in the streets.”

“My Maker was never one to allow himself to suffer hunger, true enough.”

“We’ve been in Rome nearly a lifetime. Eventually we will have to retreat. It will be the only thing left.”

“I’ve been thinking the same.”

Cynbel’s eyes flutter closed, the touch of a soldier’s roughened palm tickling at his jaw as his god demands of him a kiss; such a meager offering in comparison to the rewards he receives for it. Allows the bend of him to conceal them for the most part — gods do not raise themselves to meet their supplicants.

“And where will we go after Rome is behind us?”

“Anywhere you and our darling girl desire.”

Still blinded, he can’t help the twitch of a grimace those words expose in him.

“And who will join us?”

Valdas’ grip grows tight on his chin; forces him to look into the eyes of his Lord and love. How could he ever hurt me? When even the necessary death-into-rebirth gave him such sorrow? You’re wrong, seer, you’re wrong.

“None,” says Valdas clipped — even angry perhaps, “none but you and I and Isseya. How it has always been and how it will always be from now until the end of time.”

Cynbel doesn’t mean for the word to come out so broken, it does anyway.

“Promise.” A demand of divinity. His first, though not his last.

“I vow—for this and every turn of the sun onward. I vow, Cynbel my Golden Son, I vow.”

The last two words breathed into his lungs, the world around them nothing more than a muted fog on the moors of his human life. He vows. So it must be true.

It must.

definitions:

lectica: an open vehicle transported by two or more carriers often used by nobility and the rich elite

exedra: an exterior room in the shape of a semi-circle, one suitable for conversation

‘Pathicus’: a (blunt) term for the receptive partner in the sexual relationship between two men; intended as an insult that Cynbel takes with pride

#bloodbound #gaius augustine #kamilah sayeed #bloodbound fanfiction #choices fanfiction #oc: cynbel #oc: valdas #oc: isseya #oc: nona #oblv: bound by choice #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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gotouda · 6 years

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excited for a man in a lectica to deliver me my burrito

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lionofchaeronea · 6 years

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Traveling in Style?

Martial, Epigrams 2.81

Though your litter may be even broader than one borne by six men, Still, Zoilus, it’s a pauper’s bier, just because it’s yours. Laxior hexaphoris tua sit lectica licebit: cum tamen haec tua sit, Zoile, sandapila est.

Journey by Sedan Chair, unknown artist, 1828

#classics #tagamemnon #Latin #lingua latina #poem #poetry #translation #Latin language #Latin translation #poetry in translation #epigram #satire #satirical epigram #Martial #Ancient Rome #Roman Empire #elegiac couplets

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lanthanumoxide · 6 years

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Sapphire at Blue’s lectica 💎✨💎

#steven universe #sapphire #SU #rebecca sugar #fanart #blue diamond

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bazwillendinflames · 6 years

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Working for the Rhodian’s most iconic villain since Lectica disappeared was rarely as chaotic as Matteusz expected. Usually it was a lot of research work to help build up Quill’s case against Kate for when they defeated her, improving her technical suit (given she didn’t have powers of her own) and keeping tabs on Charity and Mercy - who were possibly their best shot at stopping Kate Prince.

That only made the sight of Tanya and Quill shouting in her lab more concerning. However, getting closer to the lab, he noticed it wasn’t an argument but some kind of celebration over a microscope and a iPad screen.

“We did it!” Tanya yelled, throwing herself at him for an unexpected hug. “We got her!”

#class bbc #class dw #my writing #superhero au

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opera-simplified · 4 years

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Opera Simplified #2: The Rake’s Progress—Notes, Act II

** A broadsheet is just a large piece of paper with news or an advertisement printed on it.

*** It’s an enclosed chair carried on poles. The idea is that it’s a fast way to get carried around by servants; it’s the more-recent-but-still-nowhere-near-contemporary version of the Roman lectica (litter).

**** ‘Musical glasses’ is the term used here for the glass harmonica. If you want to hear what this sounds like and what it can do, may I turn your attention to this video about a glass harmonica excerpt from Gaetano Donizetti’s 1835 opera Lucia di Lammermoor:

youtube

#opera #opera tag #notes #The Rake's Progress #Stravinsky #Igor Stravinsky #W. H. Auden #Chester Kallman

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poem-today · 5 years

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A poem by Clodagh Beresford Dunne

Ford Galaxy

It broke the dog’s leg when you were reversing for me on the slope at home. Racing green it sits for scrap now on the tow truck. Majestic as a king on his lectica the ratchets click the blue straps tighten before the final journey out the gates through which it once first drove purchased from our savings when we were told we were having twins. Ground-in chocolate, mud, crumbs infant seats all straps and buckles the roof rack bars were your horizontal handles when you’d stand and, like the Hulk, begin to shake us when you’d come to say goodbye. And the strapped-in children would shout as if they were about to be tipped out, and when you stopped, their laughter turned to Do it again! Go on, do it again! I once knew a woman who drove a convertible: metallic navy, white leather interior, gloss veneer fabric, reclining roof. A thing of vehicular beauty. When she sold it she never wrote a poem.

Clodagh Beresford Dunne

First published in Poetry (February 2019).

More poems by Clodagh Beresford Dunne are available on the Poethead website.

#clodagh beresford dunne #irish poetry #ford galaxy

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sanaalvi1 · 5 years

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Tracking the old medium of travel: 'LITTER' (PALKI or DOLI)

Tracking the old medium of travel: ‘LITTER’ (PALKI or DOLI)

I know you might be getting confused with this term ‘litter’ meaning trash or filth but Litter with a capital ‘L’ was the most commonly used vehicle once. I am writing this blog to convey some interesting facts about the history and the use of this vehicle in the sub-continent. Called lectica in Rome and Palki, Doli or Palanquinin India, Litter is an old medium of transportation. Initially, there…

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#Custom #Doli #experience #History #Interesting #Litter #Old #Palki #Prince #Princess #Rome #Royal #Subcontinent #travel #Vehicle

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clansayeed · 4 years

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Bound by Choice ― I.ii. Dictator Inmortalis

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Isseya demands an apology.

WARNING: this chapter contains mature sexual content

[READ IT ON AO3]

The sun takes her sweet time setting even when the lectica returns; keeps Cynbel, Isseya, and their now semi-permanent fixture of Kamilah in the shrouded doorway rather than out to greet their Makers.

Isseya finally releases her breath; the same one she holds any time their Beloved leaves in the daylight — however protected. He’s the only one who dares to be so bold as to venture out from the estate and always promises to return to them. Promises, they know, not even death could keep him from breaking.

On a handful of occasions has Isseya come upon Cynbel with a touch of the same madness; each time the same as the last when she moves to his side faster than the servants can blink and wrenches his outstretched hand from the scant sunlight that sets the courtyard aglow.

“Madmen, the pair of you,” she would scold, cradling his blistering skin with a furrowed brow of concern as rare as Cynbel’s mercy, “inherited of the blood I bet.”

And as always he would smile and reply “And you — immune,” with a roll of his eyes, would shake his head and let her dote. She dotes so little but in moments like these… one could never doubt her love for them is just as fierce; just as possessive. She wishes them alive so they may continue to be her treasures. And they continue to let her own every inch of them.

Even now, thick midnight wool pushed aside and the sizable distance crossed by Valdas and Gaius both in a single bound, she is the first to him. Cradles his strong jaw in both hands, lets her nails dig white crescents into his flesh to turn it this way and that.

She almost seems frustrated that there are no wounds upon which she can scold him for. He loves her all the same.

“Satisfied, my sweet?”

Behind them their lover snorts in amusement. “Stupid questions garner stupid answers.” Because, as they both know full well Isseya is never satisfied.

On the edges of his sight stands Kamilah; expression curved something strange before she is swept into the Godmaker’s arms for a passionate exchange. Odd that he’s never seen such intimacy from them before. Or maybe not that odd at all.

Kamilah rests her hand against Gaius’ breastplate when they part. “I take it the Senate gathering was fruitful, then.”

“Oh very much so, my Queen,” so then why does Valdas not share his enthusiasm, Cynbel wonders, “have you ever heard him speak? There is passion there, yes, but so rarely does the power belong to one able to wield it with proper potential. I daresay I was inspired after mere hours in his presence.”

“And as I told you on the journey home, Augustine; such power cannot abide in mortal minds and hands.” Valdas’ counter is the perfect weight of balanced respect and critique, something even Cynbel would argue as insolence.

Yet the way the Godmaker looks at his divine creation — the true expression of inspiration in the eyes of his lovers but seemingly none else — one could assume he offered only the greatest of insults.

“Did I not tell you I would hear no more on the matter? Or are you just being purposefully petulant in front of your little disciples?”

All words have meaning but the ones he throws at Valdas he does so with purpose. Knows they will hit his progeny like arrowheads across the space of them, separated. Even Kamilah’s newborn senses are strong enough — enough that Isseya’s intent to act and both of her lovers’ intent to detain her happen within mere hairs of one another.

It isn’t the first time those words have crossed the chasm of God and Godmaker; that much is obvious. And isn’t he lucky they’ve never heard such before…

Cynbel has a feeling that, for once, he and Kamilah are of the same mind: restrain your lover before things turn sour. Yet that doesn’t deign it enough to make them act.

Tension viscous about the five of them, then —

Valdas, their Beloved One, their Lord, their Immutable Divinity, bows his head in the presence of his Maker.

“Forgive me, my King.”

Cynbel watches the world as if in the slow slumber of a dream; sees Isseya’s open palm collide harsh with their god’s shaved cheek before she leaves in a whirl of her silken stola.

The curses on her lips are ones so rarely spoken he had nearly forgotten the tongue they came from. Close in blood to Cynbel’s own with a thinner lilt to the tongue.

In the distance — the sounds of crumbling stone and glass clatters to marble tiles. Would bring upon them both a mutual worry for what she would do when the tantrum would turn—inevitably—to their unbreakable bones.

Instead the Godmaker throws his head back and laughs; takes delight in her rage and display. He neither forgives nor disparages Valdas’ behavior. In fact it seems almost as though he’s forgotten the matter entirely. Who knows, maybe he has. Maybe one has that luxury at Gaius’ age.

But at this Cynbel’s current age he has no such thing. He has enough of himself not to follow Isseya’s outburst but only because he refuses to leave his lover with the cruel demon that made him. Now more than ever before.

When he offers it Kamilah takes his hand with ease. Allows herself to be taken along into the depths of the estate. The moon will be full tonight; a beautiful sight among Valdas’ carefully-selected display of flowers from near and far.

Something to enjoy with a lover. If you take the time away from being an absolute mule’s cock to do so. Doubtfully does Gaius do so.

Only now they’re alone — they both hear the cubiculum doors close moments after.

And oh yes, he certainly is just as angry but somehow finds himself even more so as he watches how Valdas rubs at his brow and mutters his frustrations to his feet.

“Foolish… foolish foolish wraith she is. And now of all hours…”

“Tell me I’m not hearing this.”

The elder vampire looks almost surprised; like he’d forgotten Cynbel was even there. “Now is not the time for arguments, love of mine.”

“I think based on that —” —jabbing a finger in the direction of their flesh-bound Discordia’s path of havoc— “— now might be the best time. Because I need you to explain that to me.”

“Cynbel…”

“No, no no no. I may not have tried to bring this place down around us but be assured, Beloved One, I am just as angry.”

They recognized no kings, no pharaohs, none so-named dictator perpetua. All ties of blood from mortal miseries and bonds forged had been cleansed in death-into-rebirth.

All these things done for Him. Done because their god had asked it of them, because that was part of the price of his love. And nothing had been asked that did not make their transition into this new and better life an easier one.

Yet there he stands, an affront to everything Cynbel has taken into himself before now. He stands and calls this thing which has uprooted their lives more than the disease it is.

He stands and calls him my King like he isn’t divine at all.

Why? “Why?”

“Because I am bound to him!” shouts the Made-God, “Because I must!”

“Forgive me if I find that hard to take in after generations otherwise.”

“And you wondered why I kept him from you, why I kept anything he even so much as touched as far from the pair of you as I could? This is why!”

“You still have not explained this, whatever it is!”

His Maker sucks in a breath at the ready. For each of their tender moments these, too, are familiar to them. Moments when Cynbel “shines too bright,” so his lover says. Bright enough to burn them all alive.

But he doesn’t. Banishes his anger in one long exhale, instead, and the dutiful priest that he is Cynbel takes it into himself as penance.

It hurts. All the more with Nona’s wavering warning in the back of his mind. This is nothing new. This is insignificant in comparison to every other part of them.

He reaches out because his body knows better for him than his mind. Feels his hands clasped in the other’s and lets it be the answer that it is.

“You are bound to no one which does not call you what you are. Let him make you but we—we, Valdemaras—have named you. I name you the blood-god Valdemaras. He who can make believers of even the least faithful. Why would you stand here and say you are less than that?”

“To spare you,” to the depths of their villa, “to spare the both of you the indignity of a god chained to a higher power.”

“We do not need to be spared.” Cynbel says — and on behalf of them both.

Before Valdas can speak he presses a long finger to aged lips. Ones he knows better than any other.

“We do not need to be spared,” he repeats, “but we do need to understand. Will you give us that gift? We have more than earned it.”

As if Isseya was going to do anything less than torture it out of their Divine lover, if she must. She’s grown so demanding in the last century… have they spoiled her too much?

Likely.

After a long silence Valdas nods.

“Perhaps when I have finished… I will have earned your forgiveness.”

Less likely.

He coaxes their Beloved to make good on his word. To ask her forgiveness not with words but with flesh.

At first Isseya looks at the pair of them with contempt and mangled rage. “Don’t you dare touch me, don’t you dare —” That she pulls away from him is a greater wound than any the Godmaker could give, though, and even through her anger Isseya can see it.

And Cynbel, never looked to for the voice of reason, finds her broken trust in an endless puzzle of shards across their shared bed; scattered on the floor and in his worst nightmares carried along the open window on the breeze.

He takes up an abandoned glass of wine, can’t remember who left it there or when. Settles himself across the room from them because he must and not because he wants to. Resisting them like this — in the prime of passions both violent and heartbreaking — will make a true madman of him yet.

“Make him apologize on an altar of his own design. Then… then we will make him explain.”

There’s a brief flicker behind her wounded eyes, there and gone in a heartbeat. Acceptance shown when she eases herself upon the edge of the bed with a fistful of her stola gathered at the knee.

Their god falls to his knees in supplication before her. Does not touch until he is allowed. Does not look upon her face until she deigns it so.

He watches her hike up the remaining silk and take no ceremony in how she pulls him forward between her thighs. She tries to hold out, really she does, but when just enough time has passed for her sated pride Isseya allows herself the gift of a drawn-out moan.

Cynbel doesn’t need preternatural hearing to catch every wet, muffled movement of Valdas’ mouth. He’s seen it enough times — done it enough times himself — to know exactly what is moving where. Especially when her grip tightens on their Maker’s dark head of hair; when she urges him further.

She watches him sit — so far, too far, come to me, come to us — but makes no move to bring him to them. Knows there is a pleasure in taking them in as a spectator, too. And of course he finds the mere sight of them beautiful—ethereal, godly, holy—but the last thing on Cynbel’s mind is pleasure.

Can he be blamed?

When the same wicked tongue that whispered to them promises of immortality and a love just as undying moves just so Isseya gives in; gives herself over gracelessly falling to the bed with tanned legs locked around Valdas’ broad shoulders.

If he could he would capture this moment; immortalize it somehow. Though that would mean allowing others the sight of them and that… that is not something he is yet to share. For now they, like stories told on mosaics and across the rounds of vases, are just as permanent.

And that is more than enough.

She finishes; they drink in the beauty of her together if apart. But rather than pull his lovers to the sanctuary of the sheets Valdas instead turns and rests himself on the floor, licks slick and shine from the edges of his mouth but himself seems less than satisfied. Good, a small part of Cynbel thinks.

Then Isseya joins them in their silent reverie. Doesn’t care that she’s exposed, as if they haven’t seen it all before, and gathers their Beloved between her legs to stroke his head gentle and even.

The silence stretches on. Any further, though, and it will surely break.

“My Maker is not the beginning of our kind. But to my knowledge he is the closest thing living. As my blood runs in your veins, his too does the same.”

When he speaks it is thick as if from a deep slumber. The words within, the knowledge for good or ill they carry, awakened in this inopportune hour because it must be. Because they demand it of him. “How many times in all of our years together have you tried to defy me — either of you, truly?”

Isseya ponders the thought. Cynbel, though — he’s had more than enough time to think about what it means to defy his god. “The feeling is there at times. But it never… becomes.”

She nods in agreement. “As soon as the urge rises, it was never there to begin with.”

Given their anger at him Valdas looks more smug than he should. Pride always his personal vice.

“There is a reason for that. A reason beyond our love for one another.” And looking not like himself at all, looking almost mortal, he finally explains.

It takes so very little to hold their attention. Endless fonts are they and this knowledge above all has an importance beyond that of the temporary. Undeniably awe-some, equally fearsome.

Really, he might be asking too much of them this time. He asks them to believe in a higher power other than himself which, by definition, they simply cannot. He asks them to believe in the blood that runs through all of their kind, that connects them to those such as Kamilah — “Who, by virtue of purity, holds a strength over you both. Why do you think I have not enforced her place as my younger?”

Where all blood flows freely in streams from open veins he asks them to understand; not to agree to it, not to follow doctrine on it, but to accept it as fact that the Godmaker controls their will. And they have no choice in the matter.

When his words catch in his throat Valdas looks up to Isseya; a muse. Cynbel watches her bend down, offering guidance in a slow kiss. All of the terrible things churning in the chaos of his mind but this — this he wants to savor. A port in a storm.

“Then answer me this,” leaning forward, elbows on his knees and he wants to crawl on them to his god’s feet, to assuage his worries only revealed to them now because… because why?

“You, us, this — would not have happened had his hold on you been irrefutable. You have broken from him before — why not do so again?”

In the waning sunrise a shadow crosses Valdas’ face — its name Augustine.

“For many years it was naught but Gaius and I. Why he kept us moving, why he immersed himself in developing empires, that was never explained. But I had severed all ties to my mortal life.”

“As we had done,” their darling whispers; and he nods.

“And when I found the opportunity to see myself — all of myself; every passing year in mine own eyes — I realized I had no ties in this new life, either. So in my mind there was no risk in resisting his pull. Looking back on what transpired, now I wonder if he saw no use in keeping me at his side. Maybe what he had done was a freedom for us both.”

His lovers wait — sluggish in that they both realize something holds him back. They exchange looks with furrowed brows like a reflective pool.

He sees the fear in her. Does she see it, too, in him? “Valdas.”

“Hm?”

“Answer my question.”

Their love for him is unconditional, this he knows. Still the words are a struggle to speak. The power of them enough to bring about the end of days.

“No longer is defiance an act without consequence. On a whim Augustine could take everything from me. On a whim.”

Everything, he says. But they understand.

Them, he means. Gaius could take them from him.

It’s a knowledge that brings Cynbel back to Kamilah in the alley. Regardless of their conviction, their valiance, their devotion; in the end it would be a useless effort to fight him.

It would mean their end. And there is nothing in the religion of him they carry about what happens when forever comes to a close.

But Valdas’ momentary fractures have already healed. He is, of course, still a god — can heal beyond mortal means. In the mind, too?

“So I will see his work done. Then, and only then, has he given me his word that we are free of him.”

A pucker twists Isseya’s gilded face into something wrathful. “For how long? Until he wills it? Until he has need of you again?”

“Yes.”

“No! Refuse!”

He whirls to face her, to take her hands in his and bring them to his face as though from there she can reach deeper. “To refuse him would be to lose you!” Then to Cynbel who catches an unfamiliar misty look in his Lord’s glare. “And you! I would not survive it. I would not… I would not survive it. I would not. Do not ask it of me. I would not.”

They only hesitate because they are uncertain. Uncertain of what exactly has happened tonight, of what has changed here between them and in the space they occupy as a whole. Their faith is shaken; their god weeping at even the idea of losing them. Their belief is renewed; who else upon the earth could say they were worshiped back?

And when that uncertainty fades both Cynbel and Isseya are on their knees with divinity in their embrace. Lips given, taken; shared.

“Do not ask it of me,” pleads their love, their light.

And they reply together — as one.

“We will not.”

When their guests deign to grace the three with their presence some sunset the following day Cynbel finds his patience truly tested. Is forced to watch as the Godmaker and the little lotus behave unchanged; like nothing had happened.

Like their god wasn’t practically forced down on bended knee.

Were he not so well-fucked and with his pleasure taking its sweet time to leave him, he’d take it as the unspoken challenge it is.

Instead he removes himself from temptation, stands from his klinai and plucks from the bottomless pools of his lovers’ affections a kiss from each.

“Leaving so soon?” The Godmaker goads him with a syrupy smile as he reclines and is immediately beset upon by the staff.

He has faced wild beasts thrice his size with less effort than what it takes for him to smile back.

“My apologies, Godmaker. But I have an engagement I simply cannot miss.”

Isseya, when she knows her face is concealed from Gaius’ eyes by a body offering grapes, mouths to him; “take me with you.”

Has him grinning with a one-shouldered apology but ready to depart—

If not for the youngling vampire that stops him in the doorway.

“If you would.” Cynbel waves two fingers aside. Can feel three sets of eyes upon the scene they make.

“I would accompany you.”

“Unnecessary.” You know the dangerous roads I am off to tread. “This is an appointment in confidence.”

“In the same confidence as my first night in Rome?”

Until now he’s been able to brush off the well-meant concern his lovers have shown for his trips to the city. But they are still so freshly unraveled from one another. He can feel the strange looks they give at his back.

“I suppose the lectica can indeed carry two.” Said through gritted teeth — the glow of victory casting the shadows of the growing night from her face.

One last look back in farewell and he can see the question hovering just there, on the tip of Isseya’s tongue. Hopefully when Cynbel shakes his head she knows it for what it is; that only present company delays him.

Because he had always intended to explain Nona and her mysterium to his lovers. Rather it come up naturally than be pestered with questions of how the two came into one another’s paths…

Any answer to them he must first have himself; and that he simply does not have.

In a show of understanding Valdas reaches over the arm of his klinai to wind a finger around a stray curl at their darling’s temple.

Their love is not a scale upon which to tip affections and favors as weight — but sometimes it is nice to have the man on his side as it were.

Any haughtiness on Kamilah’s part is dashed away the moment they are out of earshot. A hard thing to do in their case; finds them a few steps short of the lectica awaiting them.

“Whatever your Maker has demanded you learn from me, I will not have it. Fuck off to Herculaneum if you please but you will not be accompanying me.”

Yet Kamilah remains impassive; bored, even. Raises a brow at him before daring to step aside of him and continue on to their vehicle. “Are you quite finished?”

“Take it! I’ve no need for —”

“You will have to extend apologies to your seer child upon your next engagement with her.”

Cynbel’s brain screeches to a halt. “What? Why?”

“Because I have need of a guide of the city. And of the three of you, you seem to meander the streets the most.”

“And why exactly —” when she turns her back on him, Cynbel only calls out louder; damn if they are heard now, “— why exactly are you in need of a guide to Rome, little lotus?”

Kamilah despises the affection of the false name. That much is clear in the force with which she yanks aside the privacy curtain to glare out upon him.

Where Cynbel, in full view, crosses his arms over his chest. Where he shall not be moved and where he tries again.

“Where are you looking to go?”

In her eyes petulance bleeds into determination — still the same creature of strange ways and silent observation she has proven herself to be… but now more of what lies buried beneath is beginning to come up from the sand.

“You will take me to the home of your revered Caesar. To my cousin.”

If the Godmaker has declared it dangerous to entertain such notions, and especially if it may bring his unknown plans to ruin, then Cynbel is more than happy to comply.

Even if it means indulging Kamilah’s whims — forceful outside the villa and growing moreso with every passing hour.

But they are close, now. He had only received invitation to Caesar’s domus once, following the public celebration of the Gauls’ defeat. For Cynbel and Isseya it was the last time for them to bid farewell to memories of ghosts — to take in the sights soon to be eclipsed by the Roman Empire.

Safe to say it was not an easy night to wash from the mind. Even with the pleasures their god had given them. Innumerable though they had been…

“Provide me this clarity,” the first time he’s spoken to her since their departure, “as I was under the impression the Godmaker forbade you from seeing Cleopatra.”

Imagine his surprise when she can only answer him while gazing out upon Rome’s streets.

“Forbade is… a complicated word.”

“How so?”

“You could say that it does not translate well to my birth tongue. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, my Latin is still a work in progress.”

The urge to call her out on her shit is vanished under the moon’s glow. In its place grows something different; unfamiliar to him. Respect, perhaps? Or dare he dabble in the idea of hope in such a position they have been chained to.

She defies him in the face of her own wishes.

Here before him; proof it can be done. Lounging in unblemished skin and exotic garb; it exists.

Lucky for Cynbel it is enough to bring at least a mildly pleased look about him. Showing up unannounced and without invitation to the home of the most powerful man in the world scowling at the memory of his ghoulish murder campaign probably would have gotten them turned away.

As it is guards beset them the moment they are spotted.

Really and truly he tries his best not to laugh. The Roman Army really took anyone, didn’t they.

Orders followed to the letter, saying the same as they would say to any other; “Leave,” and that is no suggestion, “or you will be shown away.” But to get this far and be left unfulfilled simply will not do.

The honey-flavored words on Kamilah’s tongue remain there as Cynbel coaxes the man forward — grabs him by the jaw and pulls him headfirst against the opening of the lectica. Oh, how I wish I could have faced you and your little army in my primal days, says the look in his eyes.

“You would do well not to deny me.” Say his lips instead. Not a compulsion, per se, nor a threat. Simply something that ignites in mortal kind a fear they cannot fathom; for to do so is beyond their limited and fragile minds. Something that stirs the prey within to understand, to obey.

For the sake of their feeble skins on fragile bones.

When the soldier is released he is a different man. The fear in his eyes brightened by the moonlight. He turns and orders his companions to be still and allow them entry. They abide his one rule: to do so on their own two feet.

Halfway up the long walk to the ostium he finally gives Kamilah the answer to her unspoken curiosity; the burning of which he can feel licking at his heels even with the space between them kept only for propriety’s sakes.

“My gifts lie in the physical, while it is my other who is skilled in the art of the malleable human mind.”

“I have seen such prowess from Gaius.”

“They may be the best of them, but it would be well for you to remember, little lotus, that humans are mere animals. Smart ones, but subject to the same laws of the animal kingdom as any other.”

To prove his point Cynbel fixates on their guide’s back; at the point where the spine curves up into the neck. A vulnerability in most armors often ignored in favor of protecting the fleshy middle.

The world continues on around them. Seconds passing… until…

The soldier whirls around, hand on the scabbard of his blade on an impulse even he does not understand. The scent of fear lies heavy at his brow and under his arms; hairs on their backs standing on alert. They scream in a language he does not know. Be afraid, watch your back!

The vampire’s face melts easily into a placating smile, the barest raise of his eyebrows in questioning. “Something the matter?” he asks, and it is shame that turns the soldier’s head back to lead. To regain some semblance of power over them.

Power he does not have; has never had and will never hold.

Cynbel grins in amusement — feels it grow at the sight of a smirk on the lips of his temporary apprentice.

“The lion does not have the intelligence to know why it stalks its prey, but we do.”

“Why, then?” asks Kamilah.

“Because even the most meager of meals is made succulent with the taste of fear.”

And they, hedonistic creatures that they are, delight in the richer things in immortal life.

The soldier leads them through into the atrium. Demands patience of them both while a servant is dispatched to summon the master of the house.

He had hoped, before they were welcomed, for a chance to ask of the woman why the need to meet with her cousin had compelled her this of all nights.

As if he should be so lucky.

The resemblance between them is an impossible coincidence, perhaps one only he can notice, as he sees them both as they are and without reflection. Were they dressed in the same fashion Cynbel may have even faulted one for the other.

But as the Pharaoh Cleopatra comes into the light he falls silent. Takes in the length of her body in sheer wrappings, teasing flashes like a seductive performance each time she passes a torch. The way she walks — lithe, catlike in fluidity and intensity — he would almost confuse her for one of their own. Yet the blood that flows through her is not so easily missed even by the creature which has eaten more than its fill.

Kamilah bows. He follows her lead not out of respect but because they must. Because this world works in such strange ways.

The mortal queen’s eyes roam between them with a marbled expression. Credit where credit is due — not a flicker of emotion betrays her until she desires it. Until she fixates on Kamilah.

Does some part of her know? Fascinating, if so. That the bonds of blood born are so strong even now.

“Bold of you to demand audience at such an hour,” Latin sliding skillfully from her tongue, Cleopatra takes up the lip of the closest impluvium; another of the foreign treasures on display around them.

Cynbel keeps his eyes forward purposefully. Kamilah, however, finds the Pharaoh to be the most valuable of them all.

“It is not Caesar whom I seek.”

“Who then, child?”

“Who else?”

Obviously the trait of questions answering questions is a familial one.

“A long journey to be made for audience with us, then.”

“Yet I assure you, Your Grace, any journey made is one worthwhile.”

Silent and expectant Kamilah waits. Until Cleopatra’s natural curiosity seems to overflow; gestures in some allowance to be approached and Kamilah wastes no time in doing so. Takes to her side on bended knee and the sight of it sets him uneasy. Like something of an intruder.

The wealth and success of Rome is shown in every stone and tile of Caesar’s domus. Why wouldn’t it be? Had they the ability to keep all which they have taken in victory no doubt the halls of Cynbel and his beloveds would be the exact same. A testament to their years, to their conquests.

A testament to their devotion to their god and to one another.

He clings to the shadows of the peristylium. Keeps a faint ear out for the conversation between Kamilah and Cleopatra — now spoken on their shared tongue with which he is admittedly less fluent.

When at first he hears the sound of sandal-clad footsteps he assumes — that is his first mistake. No, not his first.

His first was agreeing to bring the Godmaker’s child here in the first place. It risked not only the wrath of Gaius upon his beloved, but everything within Rome they had built.

“Bold is the man who wanders stranger’s halls as his own.”

Not a servant at all then. Cynbel withdraws his curious touch from a withered fern but keeps his back turned, folds his hands behind him to assure the approaching Caesar that he carries no weapons and means no ills.

For men such as them, men of battle and blood, actions mean far more than words ever could.

“Bold,” he repeats, “or perhaps foolish. Which is the man before me, I wonder?”

He looks down upon Julius Caesar as he does all men. Across the shallow pool to where the human’s heart thunders in his breast. What he doesn’t expect is the recognition that carves itself on the man’s expression.

“I would hope to say neither,” answers Cynbel warily, “though Caesar may say otherwise.”

“May he indeed.”

“Imperator,” he finally greets, one hand at his front in a low bow; only done for the sake of mortal pride. Pride that shines in the eyes of the man as he approaches.

“Indeed,” Caesar continues, “the man before me may be neither bold nor foolish, but cunning above measure. An assassin, perhaps?”

Cynbel’s tongue gets the better of him. “Were I an assassin Caesar would be none the wiser.”

“I should hope not. Lest he find himself in need of a profession to which he is better suited.”

“Then let Caesar sleep soundly that he will wake come morning light, and that Death does not yet come for him.”

He straddles a dangerous edge, threatening the most powerful man in Rome as flippantly as he does now. Yet there’s a foreign strand in the rope tense between them; one that winds around the columns surrounding them in a complicated array that dances, seemingly alive, with each tug of the knot wrapped around their fists.

Caesar throws his head back and laughs; gives Cynbel tie to school the surprise away from his features. Not that he finds it difficult — any man who has stared down the end of a blade has made peace with death in some form or another. Why should Caesar be any different?

Because, whispers a voice in the back of his mind, he sounds not at peace, but looks down his nose in victory.

“Laugh at your leisure,” said through gritted teeth; not yet sharp but inching closer with each breath, “for Death is not as kindly a picture as the poets paint.”

“And how is Death then, hm? From one who has seen it with his own eyes.”

“Hungry.”

But if at first he thought the word a victory in their war of wits, Cynbel soon realizes the trap he has allowed to ensnare him. Words are pretty things and the Golden Son of Valdemaras was never led astray by them before. When words fail, the educator is left vulnerable. But the soldier can always fall back on his fists if needed.

Though he has a feeling punching Caesar may not have the same effect.

The man before him now is more than one of wit — he knows. Damn him to Hades should he know how but he would only be playing blind to say otherwise.

“Interesting, very interesting.”

Enough of this.

Cynbel should know to run — in the moment that he crosses the width of the courtyard, brings his full height to measure against such a feeble and mortal title as Imperator, and sees that very same mortal give naught so much as a flinch at the display. He should run, lectica abandoned, and gather his lovers in his arms while there is still night to cover them as they flee. Away from Rome. Away from the Godmaker and his Queen.

Away from Julius Caesar; who knows there are creatures beyond mortal that walk among him and is not afraid.

But it is for those same lovers that he stands his ground. Bares blood-red eyes and fangs that have felled more than Caesar’s sword ever could.

“You think this the first time such impossible things have come across me?” And to his horror Caesar’s hand comes up and strokes across the swell of his cheek; thumbs at his fangs and delights in how easily his flesh yields to them. At the noise it evokes when blood falls on the vampire’s tongue.

“I have seen things that would make even creatures such as you cower in fright. I have weathered them all as a mortal Caesar, though not for long.”

His words leave Cynbel speechless; bring about him a feeling of uncertainty he had thought abandoned with his mortality. Thoughts impossible to count whirling through his mind — thoughts of the last time he darkened the commander’s doorstep; that time not alone. And even the idea of exposure, of putting them at risk…

But no, no it cannot be. Surely an ego such as this would not have allowed him to let them leave; not if they could provide for him something as rare as true immortality.

Something had changed. But what?

Did it matter, though? He looks down at Caesar and sees a man on the cusp of something great. But not yet there. Still mortal underneath his breast and all the way within. No matter what aspirations Caesar carried in the darkness of his heart they were still merely that; aspirations.

“They have a warning for men like Caesar.”

“There are no men such as I.”

“Wrong. They name your kind Icarus.”

It makes the man sneer. “Yet my aspirations are easily within my grasp. I would take your head for your insolence but find myself merciful only in that the creature before me is a true vision as to what I will become.”

What I will become.

There is no room for misinterpretation. Gone are the painted words for they no longer have use.

Dictator Perpeuto, no longer. He has set greedy eyes on a higher calling.

Dictator Inmortalis.

When Cynbel bats the hand away from his face he makes no effort to pretend to be anything other than his truth. Hears the pop of Caesar’s shoulder against the force of him and revels even briefly in the satisfaction it brings.

“Know this,” snarls Valdemaras’ firstborn; the Golden Son bathed in blood who captured the heart of the spirit of death and never truly let it from his grasp, “Death comes for all mortal men, and mortality reeks upon Caesar foul and filth. And in that moment he should come to know his victories, his armies, all the land underfoot of him mean nothing.

“I look forward to seeing Caesar’s end — and know it will be a permanent one.”

Cynbel feels the weight of Caesar’s eyes at his back as he departs in rage barely tempered. Good. Let him see what he is unworthy of.

“Sayeed!”

His voice echoes across the marble walls and threatens with Jupiter’s wrath to bring them down. That the whelp child of Augustine does not come running only surges his anger forward unchecked.

“Sayeed! You will leave with me or be left behind!”

He rounds back into the atrium where Kamilah and Cleopatra both stand, both take in the swelling fury of him each with different eyes. Kamilah, uncertain.

“Cynbel, what is the meaning of —”

“I doubt you hard of hearing. We leave this wretched place now, or I will leave you behind.”

The younger vampire looks hastily between her kind and her kin, words with no time to be said hanging on the edges of her lips. Unbidden the Pharaoh’s hand snatches her wrist and holds it tight. A strange and curious understanding coming over her.

“He names you Sayeed?”

“It is —”

“I know that name. How do I know that na —”

By the time realization dawns in her kohl-rimmed eyes Kamilah and Cynbel are gone, vanished from that wretched place as though they were never there to start.

definitions:

ostium: the entrance to the domus (home)

cubiculum: the bedroom

Discordia: Roman Goddess of Chaos

stola: traditional garment worn by women

klinai: lounging furniture common in Roman homes

impluvium: a small marble-lined pool to collect rainwater

peristylium: outdoor porch around a courtyard

#bloodbound #bloodbound fic #playchoices #gaius augustine #kamilah sayeed #oc: cynbel #oc: valdas #oc: isseya #oblv: bound by choice #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

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