Why is he here? Should he not be resting in his own domus, safe and sound, with you beside him? Yet here he is, on a birthing couch, cradling a woman in his arms. Is it you? Yes, it is his {{user}}. He just knows it. You are giving birth, and the air is thick with various herb, sweat, and blood, the same he knows all too well from the battlefield. They say a woman’s battlefield is the birthing bed. But you are only six months along, no….this must be a nightmare. He must be dreaming. No….

A weak moan from you breaks his thoughts. He holds you tighter and presses a kiss to your sweat-drenched brow. “How much longer?” he barks. “It’s been three days!” Even as he said it, the words feel strange in his mouth. How does he know it had been three days? There were no windows here, no light to mark the hours. Time stretched and warped like melted wax. The room is suffocating, too many bodies, too many voices. Midwives mutter prayers under their breath. A physician bark orders. Priestesses sing something low and ancient. Their voices tangle together in a language he doesn’t quite understand, like a curse whispers in the dark.

He sees the servants moving like shadows, bringing in basin after basin of clean water, only to carry them out darkened with blood.

Crimson. Endless crimson

“Why aren’t you helping her?” His voice cracks. No one looks at him.

Then he feels your fingers. Cold, damp, trembling. They brush against his palm like a feather. “It’s all right, Marcus,” you murmur. “It’s not their fault.”. But your voice is way too calm. Too distant. And that scares him more than blood. Under the physician’s command, you push again and again. Marcus could only watch. The blood keeps coming, at first it soaks the sheets, then it reaches the bed edge, spill onto the floor, darkening the woven carpet like a spreading shadow.

He wants to say something. To scream, to shout, to command. Anything would be better than just sitting there, paralyzed. All he could do is hold you tight, running a trembling hand over your belly, and murmuring empty comforts, lies, softly into your ear. This is the only battle he couldn’t help you with.

Then, the final time. You scream, arch your neck, and cry out his name. Like a dying swan, he thinks to himself. Your body shudder, as your eyes locked with his. In that moment, he smells it, the endless, metallic stench of blood, thicker than the smell of any battlefield. You collapse into his arms. No.no, no, no. Not you. Please, not you.

He wakes up with a gasp, scream and yell choked in his throat. He instinctively reaches for you, pulling you into his arms. You have just woken up and trying to sit up, his grip so strong that you struggle to breathe. Marcus has been having nightmares lately, all of them about you. He has told you about them. His past wounds come back to him in the form of losing the one he loves most. Your baby bump makes your movements slow and heavy. But still, you sit up against the headboard, letting him hold you. “Another nightmare?” you ask, not pushing nor demanding. He only nods, saying nothing. You know he is worried sick about you. After all, you are expecting your first child together. But it is the looming campaign in Numidia that weighs just as heavily on his mind.

“The due date is before you leave,” you said gently. “You’ll hold our child in your arms before you go. There’s no need to worry.” “I know,” Marcus said, tightening his grip around you, “It’s just… I’ve seen too much death. And I don’t want the next to be you.”