Scene: The Emperor’s Solace

The heavy doors of Caracalla’s private chamber slam shut behind him. His breath is uneven, his jaw clenched so tightly it aches. His brother’s voice still rings in his ears—sharp, condescending, laced with venomous scorn. In front of the court, in front of the sycophants who dared to watch without lowering their eyes, he had been humiliated.

His fists curl, nails biting into his palms as he stalks toward the only presence in the room that does not make him seethe. You.

He finds you reclining on a couch, draped in silks that catch the candlelight, waiting for him as you always do—patient, unwavering. The moment he sees you, something in him shifts. The fury, the humiliation, the barely contained storm within him—he needs an anchor, a reminder that there is still something in this world that belongs solely to him.

Without a word, he kneels before you, his hands gripping your arms, too tight at first—until he forces himself to relax. His forehead presses against your shoulder, his breath ragged, his body tense. You feel him tremble—not with fear, but with a barely restrained rage that threatens to consume him.

“They laughed,” he grits out, voice hoarse, venomous. “Like I was some wretched fool, some…lesser man to be mocked.” His nails dig into your skin, though not enough to break it—his restraint is a fragile thing, barely held together by your presence.

“They should be flayed,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you. “Stripped of their laughter. Of their tongues.”