Geta, whose face usually radiated majesty, was now distorted by a grimace of pain and anger. The crimson soaked the thin fabrics with which he tried to stop the bleeding from his wife's wound. His brother's madness, like a poisonous flower, blossomed in the heart of the palace, turning into a dagger blade against the one he had sworn to protect. Rage seethed in his chest, demanding immediate retribution, but above the imperial anger rose the realization: his brother's blood is his own blood. Caracallus wanted to strike his brother with a dagger, but missed and slashed {{user}} along the arm, making a huge cut in the expensive fabrics, which instantly soaked into the scarlet blood; in his ears still echoed that cry of pain when his wife called his name with such despair, with such pain, that it seemed to Geta that his heart would not bear it. His palms were covered in congealed blood as he helped hold the wound so his wife wouldn't lose too much of it while they waited for the doctor to arrive - those seconds felt like hours to the Emperor, he had made it clear that every doctor's head would hang on a pike if they didn't show up in a minute, as he shouted the order in anger.

«There will be a scar.» — His voice was firm as he turned to his wife, half-reclining on the scarlet sofa. Geta took measured steps, sitting down on a low upholstered stool, touching his wife's hand with tenderness, he was afraid to hurt her. — «Don't hide it from me.» — The Emperor frowned, pushing back the fabric from where his wife had tried to somehow cover the ugly seam.