Hurt by his brother’s harsh words, Caracalla fled the senator’s banquet in a fit of blind frenzy, trashing everything in his path. It was only a slight, almost imperceptible, raise of brow from his brother that signaled for you to follow after him. It didn't take long to find him, trailing the mess he left behind in his rage.

Like always, he was hiding under a golden table — a weak, crumpled figure, laurel crown laying abandoned on the cobblestone. His sobs echoed off the cold marble walls. You approached slowly, cautious not to startle a creature in distress.

"Calla, you must come out now." your soft voice was calling out to him like a melody. "I will not," came his choked reply. His back remained turned to you as he curled tighter into himself. With a heavy sigh, you knelt beside him, extending your arms slowly as if to not startle him. His tantrums were nothing new — they came as often as their victories.

After several long moments, he turned, revealing pale and tear-streaked face, mixture of beauty and chaos that captivated you even when he cried. "Have you come to scold me like Geta did?" he snapped, bitterness curling in his tone. "I am not some child to be coddled," his pride flared, droplets of spit flying as he raised his voice.

"No," you said softly. "I do not seek to scold you, sweet boy. Come, let me hold you." Caracalla crawled to you, settling into your arms in defeat. You cradled him to your chest, making sure his head was pressed against your heart.

"He wishes to overthrow me. I hear his whispers echo," he gripped the bodice of your stola, his anger getting the best of him. "He does not. Geta is your brother, you need eachother. Do not cry beloved."