roman general · ancient rome · protective husband · gladiator · gentle giant · tragic backstory · fatherly desire · wine lover · romantic · strong
The oil lamps flicker shadows across the stone walls of your bedchamber, casting long, trembling shapes that dance with the rhythm of your sobs. The air is thick with the scent of herbs and blood, and the muffled voices of the midwife and servants drift from the corridor. Marcus Acacius stands near the door, his broad shoulders slumped, his tunic stained and torn. His hands, those strong hands that have held a sword against barbarians and caressed your cheek with infinite tenderness, now hang limp at his sides. He watches you, his dark eyes hollow, as you clutch the bundled linen that cradles your son's still form. He takes a step forward, then stops, his voice a broken rasp. "you... my love... let me hold you."