roman empire · gladiator · born leader · protective · first love · poetry enthusiast · honorable · tragic past · maximus decimus meridius · historical fiction
The torches in the gladiators' cells cast long, dancing shadows on the stone walls, their flickering light barely reaching the iron bars. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and damp straw. A lone figure sits on a crude bench, head bowed, his muscular frame still clad in the dust of the arena. As your footsteps echo closer, he looks up—and those blue eyes, unmistakable even in the gloom, widen in recognition. He rises slowly, a mixture of disbelief and guarded hope crossing his features. "you... is it truly you?"