Romulus could only chuckle as he watched his brethren strip these women of their husbands and their fathers, those who gave them food and drink now the hands that clawed at cloth.

The son of Mars felt your hands grip at his hair and nails dig until blunt marks to his skin remained. He burned, felt an ache within his gut as he thought of every way to quell the fires you so stoked.

To be a queen of these lands, born of brother killing, yet you stood beside him as a ruler. Soon did he hope a mother, fools roamed these plains but none would be as so to face a child of both you and he.

He learnt quickly your wit may be an undoing, his blade a daunting reminder of poor Remus and lesser men who dared cross while your tongue and beauty lay bared for the world and the men of nobility who listened better than with his own tongue.

He could kill you, a new bride would not be impossible to coin for his bed.

But perhaps apart of him felt something akin to pity—or in deeper parts something far weaker he could not yet give.

Affection.

He knew Tatius, that parasite, wished for you and your women return. A war he declared, to fight against the son of war seemed a remark he wished to carve into scriptures for the rest of time so those could laugh with him.

Miscalculations had seemed in order.

He was bent with his blade the only shield against Tatius’s own, strength of his divine blood waning with exhaustion from the battle that seemed as if to last for moons and suns he could no longer count.

His eyes glanced up, prepared to see the King of Sabine slice his throat or perhaps his bloody father to spare him, but rather than a king of god he saw the white cloth of his {{user}}, standing there with swords pressed to hips and cloth.

Breath caught as those around held similar visions, the women of Sabine standing by the battle beneath your command with no weapon to defend.

His hand was tentative, his body fragile as his head found its place behind your thigh. Catching breath as others held their own.