Chapter Text
Fire. Screaming. Ash. Terror. Chaos. Brutality. Incomprehensible misery and torment. The Roman army laid waste to your homeland with such apathy and sadism your young mind couldn’t begin to absorb the horrors. From over the shoulder of your father’s guard you witnessed the agony of the people of your town, men slain in the streets, women dragged from their homes to be raped and mutilated and humiliated, children cowering and wailing, pleading with any soul who would listen for help. The Guard had told you not to look, to keep your eyes closed or pressed to his shoulder but that curiosity... That childish curiosity won out and you couldn’t help but open your eyes, to witness the nightmare unfolding as he hurriedly carried you through the streets in search of a safe hiding place for you both.
‘Go,’ your father pushed you into his Guard’s arms, ‘Run and hide. They cannot take her.’ You had cried as you were carted away from your parents, watching your home disappear over the horizon as the strong arms of your protector held you tightly, running as best he could with you in one arm and his sword in another. You didn’t understand, not really, far too young to truly rationalise the horrors before your eyes but to see your father and mother so fearful, so frantic and feral truly terrified you. Your father was a pillar of strength, unwavering and as solid as the marble of the finest temples until that day. Until that day you had not seen your mother cry...
That day was twenty two years ago. You now a young woman of twenty seven were much more aware of what transpired under that siege, of how devastating and horrifying it truly was. Your parents were the leading noble family, and so the people had turned to them for shelter, for comfort and guidance... All things they could not realistically afford but that they selflessly freely gave anyway. While you were hidden away at the city boundary with your own armed guard, your home became a sanctuary for as many people as they could. At great expense. The army soon descended upon them, taking whatever they could from your home, your parents and the people.
Vicious rumours would circle in the years that followed, detailing how your mother had been reduced to nothing but a common whore as any soldier who wanted her could take her, and your father was entirely unable to do anything about it. To protest, to rally or fight would have surely meant death for himself and for his wife. No, it was a suicidal fools act to stand between the Roman army and anything they wanted. And so he did the only thing he could, to stand by and watch. It was only as you matured you realised these were not rumours at all. It seemed that while your mother did not begrudge your father this, he held himself accountable. Once a kind and generous and merciful man, since the siege he was callous and unyielding, furious and haunted by his own abhorrent guilt.
You held onto the memories of a father that once was, the father who would scoop you up into his arms and shower you in affection whilst tickling your chest, the father who would insist on seeing you to bed alongside your mother refusing the maids and nannies this task, to kiss your forehead and wish you tender dreams of Gods and heavens so far away, of paradise and glorious landscapes. Yet he was now so cold, forcing you into hours and hours of training, insisting that you should be able to defend yourself should another army arrive at the doorstep. You rarely went to bed without bruises for most of your teen years. He forced you into lessons of history and politics and strategy and made it very clear he would not have an ‘imbecilic daughter at the helm’ when he died.
As the only child there was an immense pressure upon you, and as a daughter rather than a son, it soon became clear you were perhaps more a hindrance than a blessing. Your father’s insistence on your education did not reflect well with potential suitors, many eligible men wary and anxious to marry a woman capable of meeting them in combat, of overhearing intensive political talk and understanding it completely. It was too risky. And as the months turned into years your age became another factor which weighed heavily against you. These men wanted a woman recently of age, much more malleable in nature and naive to the world. In the last year or so your mother seemed to accept that you would remain a barren spinster, and you would simply age and wither alone. While you may one day overtake the household, the business your father had amassed... It was likely he would bequeath it to a son of a dear friend rather than you.
So while your friends were betrothed and married and began to cultivate their own little families, you contented yourself with being a supportive figure in their lives, a motherly confidante to their children, to assist the needy folk of the town, to keep yourself occupied and amongst friendly faces... To also keep out of your father’s way. If you were not among company, you were content to wander your home’s grounds and gardens, to sit amongst the flowers and bask in the sun, learning to cherish your own company and avoid becoming reliant on others’.
That morning, your dearest friend Aelia had ventured to you, with her three young children in tow, clinging to the hem of her skirt tightly, until they reached the gardens of your home and set about playing, chasing each other and screeching merrily. The two of you perched on one of the stone benches by the edge of the grass, one of your servants immediately bringing you both water and wine, letting the tray rest between your bodies on the bench. Aelia watched as you slipped your feet from their sandals, pushing them into the grass and letting the blades caress your soles, the way you cast your face up skywards, closing your eyes and absorbing the rays that seemed to caress you as though a tender lover.
“I do not know how,” she began, grasping a chalice of wine and taking a languid sip, “but you seem to only grow more beautiful.”
“Hush,” you admonished, giving your toes a little wiggle, “I am growing old.”
“Now it is you who must hush. We share the same number of years, do not forget.”
“Yet you have your little darlings,” you finally met her eyes, granting her a brilliant smile, “they keep you young.”
“I do not know about that,” Aelia snorted, watching the three of them chasing a bee, “they definitely keep me on my toes.”
Aelia had this inherently pessimistic nature, despite her endless efforts to counter it. Her long golden hair fell in natural gorgeous waves down the length of her back, she refused to braid it per the fashion as it was far too beautiful to be tamed and kept locked away, and her small features rested on a circular face, dainty and so naturally feminine it was no wonder her husband commissioned for her to have her portrait painted as often as he did. Aelia had married not much longer after she had come of age, reaching her bleed much later than most at nineteen. Naturally, given her beauty and her strong bloodline, it was not long before she was found a suitable match and you were so relieved when the news reached you that her intended husband was a local to Tuscany. It meant she could remain close to you, and you could support her through this next phase of her life.
Not that she needed much support. The match made between her and her husband seemed to be one of those rare political entanglements which yielded genuine love and affection between them. Within what seemed like weeks, Aelia would send letters to you praising him, his gentle nature and his tender touch, how well he was treating her, respecting her and their intimacy flourished. It wasn’t long at all before she gleefully informed you that she was with child, having gone not one but two moons without a bleed. You were overjoyed for her... But... There were some days, some lonely dark days where Aelia’s happiness and solid family structure planted a seed of resentment within you, of jealousy. She was everything you desired, the doting husband, the many children, health and radiance. Happiness. Of course these plagues of envy never lasted long, it was hard to ever stay angry with her. The weight of your friendship far outweighed all other sentiments.
“What news of your husband,” you took up your own chalice and toyed with it in your hand, “Still... Satisfactory?” You peered at her with a raised brow over the rim of the cup as you drank, and she met your eyes with a wink.
“More than,” Aelia shook her head lightly so that her hair would waft back over her shoulders, “these days he’s growing restless for a fourth babe and leaps upon me like a stallion whenever he can.”
“Gods,” you nearly choked on your wine, “how awful it must be for you to be so desired.” Aelia rolled her eyes at your sarcasm, keeping a cautious eye on her children as one stumbled and fell before hoisting himself up and continuing his play, “You are desired, you know.”
“By whom,” you scoffed, also watching the children.
“I saw the stable hand as you met me at the gates,” Aelia nodded, “he desires you.”
“A match my father would never approve,” you shook your head, toying with the rings at your fingers absently. Aelia shot her eyes to you suddenly, wide and intrigued.
“A match you have considered, then?”
“Aelia-“
“No, answer my question.”
“... Well, yes,” you whispered and she clapped her hands.
“You do not need marry the boy, but you deserve to have some... Fun.”
“Aelia you cannot be suggesting...”
“Well why not,” she took a sip of her wine and let the cup rest back against the tray, crossing her legs beneath her dress.
“Well my purity, for a start.”
“Your purity is the concern of your husband. No husband? No concern. Your father is to blame-“
“Please keep your voice low. I do not wish to attract any wrath today.” Aelia couldn’t help but notice the way you withdrew from her at the mention of him, the way your shoulders slumped and your eyes fell to the floor, the way it stole away that impassioned glint in your eyes.
“He cannot expect you to live out your days as though you were a Vestal Virgin... It could be done in secret.”
“Aelia I...” you shook your head, “truthfully I would not even know where to begin.”
“You know that the doors of my home are always open for you-“
“And have you complicit? My father would have you and your husband hung in the street,” you sighed, “no. I would say it would be much safer to be desired from a distance.”
Aelia pondered this, eyeing you carefully and you refused to meet her gaze, keeping your stare to the hills ahead deliberately.
“He is wasting your youth, your beauty. It is an insult to the Gods,” she bit, jaw clenched with genuine fury, “I say you visit the temple of Venus and pray for a match.”
“I have tried... I believe my prayers have fallen on deaf ears.”
“Then one more try will not do any further harm. Come,” she stood, extending a hand to you, “We shall go now.”
“Aelia-“
“Children! Come! We are leaving.”
“Aelia I will need a chaperone-“
“I will be your chaperone,” she seized your hands and pulled you up onto your feet, watching as you pushed your feet back into your sandals, “I have faith in Venus, she will not ignore us both.”
It was utterly futile to try and resist Aelia when she was like this; as soon as she had an idea she ran with it, refusing to let it fall idly by without action. She was a woman of her word, and the faster she could act upon her word the better. As she began to drag you by your hand through your courtyard, through your home and out into the street, her children followed you both like puppies. One hung onto your side while the other two yapped and pushed and pulled at each other, bickering and play fighting together.
“Children please stay close,” you urged then to walk in front of you and Aelia, at least that way you could see them.
The two of you drew much attention from the busy streets, it being rather rare for two noblewomen to walk so freely and while this did not seem to faze Aelia, it forced you to try and keep your head bowed. If news reached your father that you had left without a guard you did not want to imagine the consequences. Thankfully, it did not take you long to reach the temple steps, Aelia leading the charge and bounding up ahead of you, hoisting up the youngest of the children to her hip.
“Come now, quietly,” she urged them, and they stepped beside her lowering their tone and behaving immediately. She and her husband were regulars to the temples and so the children were well trained on how to behave when on sacred grounds.
“You go ahead,” she looked over her shoulder to you, “go first and then I will follow.” With a curt nod, and a deep breath, you made your way inside slowly, cautiously, eyeing each woman you passed by, not a single man in sight. With its sky high marble architecture, gold decal and rich paintings it was an imposing sight to behold. While inviting it was also terrifying, the grand architecture truly reminding you of how miniscule and insignificant you were when compared to the might of the Gods. As you approached the statue of the great Venus to the back of the temple, you patiently waited for a spot beside her. It was said this was the best place to pray, to rest yourself at her feet in a display of servitude.
An older woman beside the statue had her head down to the tile floor, knelt bowed and only her back and white hair visible to you. She sat, tears upon her cheeks, before attempting to stand. Yet, with her frail and aged bones she had some difficulty and you hurriedly stepped forward to assist, gently grasping her upper arm and elbow to balance her weight as she tried to hoist herself again.
“Thank y-“ she began, but froze as she looked up to you and recognised your face. You gave her a warm smile, trying to urge her to ignore any status or title. While many feared your father, you did your absolute best to ensure they did not fear you in the same manner.
“In this temple, we are all mere servants,” you whispered so as not to disturb the others’ prayers and the woman let a shaky hand rest to your cheek.
“Bless you, my Lady.”
Shuffling away then, she left you behind and you knelt where she had been beside Venus’ marble feet. You leant forward, using your hands against the floor for stability before resting your forehead to the tile. Taking a deep breath, letting yourself be immersed in your task at hand, you began to silently pray...
Venus, oh mighty Venus, beautiful radiant bountiful Venus... I throw myself upon your feet to once again request you hear me, hear my prayer... I am aged, I am without man nor child... I know no pleasure, no lust or desire... I beg of you, hear me... I would devote my successes to you should you grant me this life... A freedom, a feminine requirement... I know not what it is to be a woman, my body goes untouched and without bearing children... If I cannot do this, what can I do? What good am I? Please hear me Venus... Hear my prayer...
If only you knew just how it seemed she had heard you all along, how she was merely awaiting the perfect time to strike... And just how fast she would act now the time was here after all...
~
Aelia walked you home after her prayer, nursing a fawning child at her hip, exhausted from the day and whimpering softly as they grew frustrated, unable to articulate their needs properly to the adults. She was a natural mother, she knew exactly how to tend to them, exactly what to say and how to be and how to soothe them, pressing tender kisses to the babe’s hairline as she walked while her other two children trailed beside her. They bid you farewell at your door, all four of them taking their turn to embrace you before they departed to their own homestead, eager to see their father and Aelia eager to see her husband.
“Love,” she reached out to you briefly before you could leave, urging you to look to her, “Have faith.” As you made your way into the home, brushing your finger idly along the wall, you had no real thought or care until-
“My lady!” Turning, your father’s guard was dashing towards you, cheeks flushed and sweat upon his brow. He reached out to you, but withdrew his hand before he could touch you, knowing better than to lay a hand on you.
“You have to come.”
“Where?”
“Your mother has been searching for you,” he explained, panting, holding his chest with one hand and his spear in the other.
“Searching for me... Is something wrong?”
“I do not know,” he confessed, gesturing to the gardens, “Come.”
Pacing, that was how you found your mother, pacing the length of the gardens wringing her hands in front of her, the evening sun dancing across her greying hair, her long flowing robes trailing against the grass behind her. The obnoxious clanking of the Guard’s armour alerted her to your presence first, and she ran to you as you approached, reaching for you frantically.
“Where have you been!”
“Mother I-“
“Never mind,” she shook her head, grasping your upper arms, “We are to head to Rome.”
“Rome,” you repeated to her incredulously, “Why?”
“I will explain soon, but we must go now. The servants are packing your things into the carriage.”
“Mother you have never left Tuscany-“
“I am aware-“
“And you once told father that if you ever had to leave Florence, you would gouge out your own eyeballs and offer them to the Gods as payment so you may stay-“
“Yes!” She shook you, using her full might and force you had never seen or felt from her before, “You must do as we say.”
“We?”
“Your father is coming.”
“Father...” This revelation was not welcome. If you were all being bundled away on a trip to the Capital and your father was willingly going to be making the journey this news could not be positive.
Beginning to push you towards the stables, your mother could sense your tension, your apprehension and it was time to get you on your way before you could put up too much of a fight.
“This is really important, I need you to do as you are told and not aggravate your father.”
“You are scaring me,” you confessed this as you were pushed by the stable boy, who stepped away from you with a bowed head and a faint blush. Even he looked worried.
Inside the main stable, your father was overseeing the luggage bags being loaded to the horses, biting his nails anxiously.
“There you are,” he turned to you, “we have to leave. Now. Wear this.” He threw a cloak in your direction quickly, so suddenly you almost didn’t catch it at all and some of the cloth wafted against your face.
“We are to hide?”
“Yes. We travel by night, we keep our faces hidden.”
“I do not understa-“
“You do not have to understand,” you father hissed, gripping your arm, “you need only do as I say.”
That fury was in his eyes again, glazing them over, dead to the everything except his rage. The rings of his fingers buried themselves under your skin, and you knew there would be bruises there within the morning. Meekly you nodded, silent, and he withdrew his grasp on you and headed to mount his horse.
“Let’s go,” he barked, startling your mother, the two of you quickly following suit and clambering atop your own horses. Your mother cast you a cautionary glance, the kind of wariness that spoke to you solemnly, Do not test him.
It was four miles before anyone spoke. Four agonisingly slow miles outside the city walls and into the countryside, along the long winding trails through the hills.
“We should tell her...” your mother broke the peace, looking to your father quickly before returning her gaze ahead just in case he snapped. Mercifully, he simply sighed.
“There is business. Talk of war.”
“What,” you couldn’t hide your surprise, shock, fear, “War? With who?”
“It does not matter with whom,” your father bit.
“But...” you were unsure whether you should press on, “Why? Why do we need to travel if there is talk of war?”
“It is of no importance to you. When we reach Rome, you will keep your eyes down, your mouth and your legs shut. That is your role. Do you understand?”
“Yes, father,” you murmured, casting your eyes downwards and avoiding his gaze. Ashamed. Diminished.
~
The journey was arduous, sore on the body and painfully dull. So as not to irritate your father, your mother refused to speak with you. Three days may not seem like much, but three days of virtual silence and mostly barren countryside were unbearable for the spirit. The only time you had any reprieve was when you would find an inn to sleep in for the day, to then travel at night again. While your father slept, your mother would crawl to your side and whisper with you for a little while until you would fall asleep. You dreamt of Rome, the Capital. You dreamt of the home you would be guests within, and the homes master. Who would he be? Why would he have you stay?
When you were riding on that third day, and the great scape of Rome came into your view at the horizon you did not know whether to laugh or sob. Your journey was over, but now a new ordeal was to be placed before you. Out of the pot and into the fire, as they said. You could spend some time walking on your own legs, resting from the hours and hours spent upon a saddle, but you were also to be cast into the lion’s den. A world entirely foreign to you, a nest of vipers and traitors.
The true daunting prospect of what lie ahead dawned on you as you three reached the city gates, the great expanse of fortified walls towering over you, dominant and foreboding. Those very walls seemed as though the jaws of some great beast, mouth agape as it welcomed you as its prey, swallowing you whole as you passed inside, a willing lamb to the slaughter. It was immediately chaotic, hustle and bustle and merchants and beggars and nobles and soldiers and children and horses and carriages and shouting and riotous laughter and commanding bellowing and soul wrenching sobbing and unimaginable wealth and abject poverty all melded into one cacophony of restlessness. All enclosed within those walls, those jaws, and it set about this claustrophobia within you, suddenly feeling trapped without any room to breathe. You hated it immediately.
“How do you know where we are going?” Your mother had to raise her voice to be heard above the commotion around you, your father looking back to her over his shoulder as he led the way through the streets. Slowed by the many people ahead blocking the streets, it afforded them the opportunity to look up at you, these new unfamiliar faces. From beneath your cloak, you peered down at them, trying to remain hidden but your curiosity getting the better of you and you met the eyes of a child slumped against the wall, no more than seven years of age. Perhaps older but withered by his starvation. You raised a hand from the reigns of your horse and gave him a very small wave and the warmest smile you could, and only as he lifted his hands to return the gesture you noted his right hand was missing, leaving only a raw and hideous stump in its wake.
The sight of it pulled your heart down into your stomach, forcing all breath from your lungs, your pity overwhelming. You looked ahead and your father was still roaring at a merchant to move his stall so you could pass, and you reached into your pack quickly, making sure he wasn’t paying you any attention and you withdrew a single coin, tossing it quickly to the boy after one final glance at your parents. It fell to the floor by his feet and with his foot he stood on it, making sure that it was his and his alone to claim, rising to his feet. He nodded to you silently, before scooping it up and running from you swiftly, likely to go and buy some food. What kind of a place was this, you thought, to leave children to starve in the streets?
Finally, the merchant moved his stall to one side allowing the three of you to pass, spitting at your father as he did. You kept your hood pulled over your face as you passed him by, fearing he would spit at you too. He didn’t.
“I was given directions in my letter,” your father finally explained, “we should not be far.”
“Mercy,” your mother clutched her chest as she cast her eyes down at the beggars in the street, their dishevelled clothes and their muddied faces, their lifeless eyes and loss of will.
“This is a wretched place,” you could not help but say aloud, and your mother sighed.
“This will be your home for what could be months. You must accustom yourself to it.”
This will be your home... You must accustom yourself to it. Her words seemed to vibrate through your consciousness, bounding around your skull and tormenting you. This chaos, this madness, this cruelty would be your abode and your mother’s words were true. You would have to adjust, you would have to adapt or this place may very well eat you alive, chew you up and spit you out. Only the strongest of will and body would survive this place.
“My Lord!” A cry rose above the din, a squire hurriedly scurrying into view and coming to stand beside your father’s horse, bowing his head to him quickly before, “This way.”
“How does he kn-“
“I informed them ahead of time of our horses, our colours. Do not ask me another stupid question, woman,” your father interrupted your mother viciously, so sharply he may as well have struck her across the face. Perhaps he was feeling the pressure of such a shift in culture as you were, but you could not condone this cruelty regardless. You could somewhat tolerate when this venom was directed to you, to bear the brunt of his anger, whether it be in his insults or whether it be the back of his hand, you could tolerate it. Aelia often would remark upon your bruising, your split lips or eye marred with hues of blue and purple.
Yet his aggression towards your mother you found intolerable. After everything she had been through, everything she had to endure, everything she embodied and the strength and courage and fortitude she had shown in the wake of such horrors and the best he could muster was the occasional beratement of her character. So you did as you often did, deflected his anger at her to yourself.
“But surely most nobility wear similar colours?” His eyes shot to you hotly.
“We are expected,” he bellowed as the squire continued to lead the way, dutifully keeping his attention ahead and away from the family dispute. Finally, the squire rounded a corner of the street and the city seemed to open up before you, where the buildings had once been brick were now marble and a clear divide in wealth was laid bare to all who passed this threshold.
“Here we are, my Lord,” the squire bowed, keeping his head down as you dismounted your horse.
“This is,” you paused, casting your eyes up along the architecture, the way it loomed over you, the imposing dread it forced to rise up from deep within your stomach, “Large.”
“Only befitting for a General of such calibre,” while the squire seemed to be explaining this, his voice was laced with a notable distaste for you, of your ignorance and your candidness.
“A General?” You looked to your mother for answers and she kept her gaze away from you poignantly, “A General!” Your raised voice had your father stepping to you quickly, and as he raised his hand you cowered from him, awaiting the blow... Yet it never came.
Looking up to him, slowly so as not to startle him and provoke any further rage, his hand was still raised high above his head. It shook with the very boiling of his temper but he didn’t strike you. He couldn’t. You were now a representative of his household and he couldn’t risk having you damaged, marred, a single mark on you could very well jeopardise everything. This was now a matter of reputation.
“Have,” he bit, pausing to collect himself and lower his hand, “have her readied for dinner tonight.”
And before you could object, protest or question any further, a maid appeared from seemingly nowhere and began to usher you away. With a final glance to your mother over your shoulder, you allowed yourself to be herded deeper into the property, barely being afforded any time at all to take it all in. At every angle the very walls dazzled you, art of every kind and in every form scattered everywhere, tapestries and paintings and tile decals and even carvings into the very architecture itself had your jaw slack and eyes wide. Of course, being of noble birth your home was grand and gorgeous, but this was a different level of opulence, a whole new vastness of vanity.
“Where are we heading,” you asked the maid ahead of you, watching as her red hair tangled in a simple braid bobbed and bounced as she walked, each step quick and urgent.
“To bathe you, my Lady,” she answered so fast you barely caught what she had said at all.
“Bathe?”
“Yes, so you may be ready to meet the General properly.”
“Is he your,” you paused as she led you into a new chamber, the expanse of it echoing the sounds of the running water and pool within, square and fresh, luxurious and inviting, “Is he the Master of this house?”
Finally, she turned to face you and you were afforded a good look at her. The maid was young, likely much younger than you but burdened by the weight of years of servitude and you could not help but note the hideous branding on her upper arm, against her shoulder, which while aged still had a rouge hue and looked incredibly painful.
“You are a slave,” you realised with a faint breath, gesturing to the brand, “His slave?”
“Five years now,” she nodded, keeping her small green eyes down on the floor by your feet.
“Is he unkind?”
She stepped forward to circle you, to begin to unite your robes and help you undress. You could feel her shaking hands, hear her short nervous breaths.
“You may speak the truth,” you urged her, “I will not betray your confidence.”
“He...” She hesitated, bundling the unravelled fabric from your body into her arms, “He is rarely here. A very busy man.”
“That did not answer my question,” you looked to her as she came to stand beside you, “what is your name?”
“I was born into slavery, I do not have a name.”
Now that you were entirely nude, she kept her eyes ahead as she turned her back to you, allowing you to step into the waters. The gentle waves, tender ripples welcomed you, cleaned and lapped at your skin blissfully, the grime of your long journey eradicated slowly. It seemed to draw all harshness from you, all tension and worry and care being pulled from your muscles like a leech stealing your blood, relaxing your sore muscles after days spent atop your horse and sleeping on floors.
“I can bestow you a name,” you spoke clearly, letting yourself sit on the lowest step to the baths, the water resting just below your clavicle, “our secret.”
“My Lady,” she shook her head even though you could not see her, “what would be the point in that?”
“If I am to be a guest of this General,” you shuddered slightly at the thought, “I would be one of the Ladies of the house and I would not want my people to be without a name, a human necessity.”
A silence lingered in the air as she pondered this, absently beginning to toy with your robes in her arms, fingers twirling a loose thread.
“I...” A name, an identity, a belonging, an entity more than something that simply belonged to another, the thoughts brought a tear to her eye and she had to choke them back, “I would appreciate that.”
“Are there any you admire?”
“I knew a fine woman once,” she spoke with more assuredness than before, perhaps more trusting of you now, “Claudia.”
“How was she fine,” you asked, beginning to scoop the waters up and wash around your face and neck languidly, admittedly enjoying the peace of the baths and the calmness of this conversation.
“She was my Lady before I came to this household. She was beautiful and very tender... She... She passed in childbirth and I could not save her. My old Master sold me in anger, he could not forgive me...”
“The Gods claimed her life, not you,” you sank your head back into the water and combed your fingers through your hair, your ears dulled, before surfacing again and continuing, “you are not to blame for an act of Mors.”
“Thank you.”
“So...” you stood and turned to walk back to her, reluctantly relinquishing these invigorating waters, “the General... Is he unkind?”
“He...” She turned to you and kept her eyes on yours as best she could, beginning to dress you again, “He is fair.”
“I see,” you steeled yourself, you could work with fair, “thank you, Claudia.” She cast you a fleeting smile, a knowing smirk, youthful as though a secret had been crafted amongst friends behind their parents’ backs, “Thank you, my Lady.”