Geta - Blog Posts

@cummodus was being mean to me so I wrote some Acacius + Geta lap sitting. Platonic. CW for childhood trauma/abuse and self-harm.

( AO3 )

---

“You’re being careless again,” the General said.

There wasn’t any judgement to his voice, but Geta was finding it difficult to swallow despite. Instinctively, he always expected there to be shouting: a sudden grinding of the chair’s feet against the floor, a tall figure standing, and a burning blow against his cheek that’d turn his head so fast his neck would hurt for it as much as his face did later. He could imagine it (remember it) so vividly that when he lifted his hand again to reverse his move, his hand was shaking.

He knew Acacius could see it. Every bit of his fear and this cursed weakness he couldn’t shed. This was a game - be it one to teach him, but still just a game. But he remembered so well, remembered what failure meant, how swiftly the punishment came. Acacius would at least tell him what he’d done wrong, but that hadn’t always been the case. He remembered moving pieces on a board and then that blinding, swift, stabbing pain on his face, inside his head, the watery eyes and the second strike that would come for crying, even though he wasn’t crying. He only cried later, hiding behind his brother’s bed, Caracalla’s clumsy arms looking for purchase around his shoulders, his cold fingers trailing the bruises on Geta’s face, his broken lips.

“Do you know what you did wrong?” the General asked.

Slowly, stiffly, Geta shook his head. “No. I don’t understand.”

“Look.”

Acacius took the piece from his fingers, which were as cold as he remembered Caracalla’s being. He wasn’t making a mention of it, or the shaking, and Geta could only guess as to why. Did the chance to humiliate him not appeal to the man? For so long, Geta had done his best to make him angry. He deserved something in return. His father would have never passed such an opportunity. Instead, Geta now watched as his piece was placed where he’d just removed it - and then another piece moved, a black one to match the ivory piece he’d wielded. The General predicted flawlessly where he’d been heading with his strategy, and in no time, his example had shown why it was a mistake: a long, elaborate mistake, but one which his opponent had nevertheless picked up on far before Geta had realised his own exposed vulnerability.

He’d never been good at board games. Now, this was so much more than that. These were cohorts in the field - and time after time, Acacius was decimating his ranks. No matter what Geta did, it always ended the same way.

“I don’t know how you see that far,” he said hesitantly, his voice breaking a little. “I can only see ahead two or three moves. I cannot predict yours. I don’t understand.”

“I have experience,” Acacius told him, his dark eyes turning to him from underneath his brows. “I have training, an education. I have been taught, ruthlessly at times, how to always think one step ahead of the enemy.”

“And it works out there? On a real campaign?”

A short nod, and Acacius leaned back in his seat. Their pieces on the marble board stayed as they were, in the inevitable climax and closure following the flaws which Geta had exposed into his lines with a single thoughtless move. No, not… not thoughtless. He’d thought. His thoughts just weren’t good enough. He didn’t have the mind for this. That had been what Severus had told him, over the tears which burned in his eyes almost as badly as the bruises and heat of injuries and bloodied lips on his face burned. He didn’t have the mind for it, for commanding armies; he’d never make for a good emperor. He couldn’t even win a game of latrones.

“Leading an army into a battle begins much before the pieces are set. You measure everything, from the environment and the direction of the wind to the angle of the sun and the conditions of the soil. You choose your positions so that the enemy will never have a gain on you, or if it is inevitable, you first have to find a way to turn it against him or minimise the impact by employing your available strengths for defenses. Then you see how he positions himself, and ensure that there is no evident flaw in his own design. Where are his archers? Do you have natural cover available? Is there cavalry? Will the environment separate the troops when the charge begins - can you force it?”

“But none of that exists on the board.”

“All of it exists in the mind.”

For a good long while, their eyes were locked. Geta wanted to retreat, but he couldn’t. That’d be a sign of weakness. But was it worse than the lining of tears in his eyes? The fear that had his lips tight? When Acacius moved again, Geta’s whole body jolted in his seat, and his breath hitched. The reaction had the older man still for just a while, and a flicker of his expression betrayed his awareness of the change between them, and Geta wanted to die; he wasn’t good for anything. He jumped at shadows, always had. Just one move over a board which displayed his loss - his body throbbed with the memories of his punishments, and Septimius Severus had been ashes for three years now.

“Come,” Acacius told him then, his voice softer and his fingers curling once for an invitation. “Come see the board from my angle.”

Geta’s legs shook when he pulled himself up from the chair, but this time he could at least hope that the General did not see how much he had to lean himself to the armrests to stay steady. His steps were careful when he crossed the table. Then, a hand pressed over his back - the middle of his spine, first, then with fingers crawling all the way around his waist to pull him closer. He shifted, his step clumsy until his body was flush with the General’s. Hesitantly, he followed when the grip turned for a tug. There was no space there - nowhere to sit - the way he was being tugged did not allow for him to bend over, nor would he have wanted to, it felt humiliating. The side of his thigh found some purchase from the very edge of the chair, but the armrest was digging into his back when he brushed up there, trying to make himself smaller.

Acacius huffed; he gave him a glance, a measure, and his fingertips pressed into Geta’s side a little harder.

“General, I don’t know what you want of me.”

“Sit.”

“There isn’t any space.”

The look he gained in return was empty in a way that felt tired with him. But he didn’t understand. He felt stupider by the moment: first the game, now this. Where was he supposed to sit? If he’d crouch, he’d be too low, and it’d be -

He swallowed when the hand tugged at him again. Then, closing his eyes, he let his body be pulled over so that his thigh slipped past Acacius’s, the soft spread of the man’s own taking over from the hard edge of the chair. Geta didn’t so much sit on it as he allowed himself to hover over it, and the heat of shame pushed onto his face. The fear in him was changing shape now. He shouldn’t have been here alone. He shouldn’t let someone whom he didn’t trust have this much power over him. Acacius was an older man; stronger, too, by far. And what was he? A boy who couldn’t stop crying when his pieces were cast aside from a game board.

“Do you see?” Acacius asked him, as if his body wasn’t tense like frozen.

“What am I supposed to see, General?” Geta’s voice was small and strained, barely more than a hoarse breath.

The arm around him adjusted, hand turning to the bend of the arm as the fingers came loose and rested in the air. This hold was less possessive, less… less threatening. It was casual, relaxed, half on the chair and half on him, just keeping him steady as he was. Geta’s body loosened with the grip, and he could breathe again - his eyes regaining focus, the empty noise in his mind quieting. He blinked and wiped his eyes to the back of his arm as subtly as he could. At least from here, Acacius couldn’t see how pathetic he was, how afraid all of this made him.

He turned to stare at the board and tried to remember what they’d been speaking of.

“This is your stage,” Acacius began again. He was picking up the pieces, placing them in their starting lanes.

“Your archers.” His fingers drew an invisible circle upon the black pieces in front of them, separating two cohorts.

“Your cavalry.” Another circle.

“Your footmen.” A third one.

“You are here,” he explained then, brushing his fingertip over a piece. “A good general will always fight with his men. You are the point of the blade which thrusts through the enemy line. They will die to protect you, but you cannot waste their lives just because you know that they won’t question the order. The less men you have around you, the more vulnerable you are to the enemy. Even a victory can be fatal to a general whose focus shifted too far into conquest and away from the people around him. Your fight is always here, where you area, and with the men who are around you.”

Geta nodded. Warmth was returning to his body.

“At the same time,” Acacius continued, his hand gesturing toward the white pieces across the board, “You, more than any other piece on the board, must always know how to look ahead. You must keep in mind the enemy’s position, and lead your men always through the most optimal path available to you. Your body must fight where you stand but your mind must fight for the whole army. And you must trust, with your heart and soul, that every other commander is reading the land and the battle as you are. You must believe that you are on the same page, because you can only command those who are around you. There is no guarantee your orders will be heard all through the battle - this is why choosing commanders is important; they must not only have the skills to read a battle as it unfolds, but they must know your mind as well as their own, so that even when they cannot find you, they can make the choices that mirror your own.”

Now, his hand returned to Geta; it took a grip of his wrist first, then stretched fingers to become a cover for Geta’s hand, and together, they began to move pieces.

“When you move your troops through to the side to circle the enemy,” he continued, Geta’s hand in his in a way that felt warm and commanding but not forceful, and it did not hurt, “you must believe that here - on the other side of the field - your commander will know what you are doing, and pull his troops through so that your manouvre becomes the trap you wish for it. If it doesn’t? Your line scatters, and it’ll be easy to break through. The enemy will become a blade and your army is but a hide to pierce. The goal is always to engage them so that they cannot penetrate a weakness in you first. An army which is surrounded cannot fight as a point and becomes much like a field ready for a reaping.”

Geta’s hand was left upon the board, holding a piece: he thought it was obvious where he should lay it next, but something nagged at him. The enemy positions, Acacius’s words. He hesitated. And there it was - to the side of his piece, there was an opening which was being left bare, and would allow the enemy to do exactly what the General had told him not to allow for it. It could turn to a point, and push his forces apart.

He lay down the piece he’d been left holding, and moved another instead. His breath released as a gasp of relief when Acacius gave a laugh: it had no jeer in it, no mockery, no disappointment.

“Good eye,” the General said.

It could have been good. Geta could have enjoyed this, if not for the continued release of his body - the way he was falling into shaking, far too deep into relaxation, into tremors which were cold and warm at once, and if his breath hadn’t… whatever it did - he couldn’t get in enough air. His reaction took his whole focus: his hand retreated, arms pressed against his body to cover him, hands escaped to his face to hide him. Every word his father had ever said to him - all of it at once, as echoes in his ears, and he couldn’t bear it - couldn’t bear the sound of the General’s laugh, the warmth of it, or the sensation of burning soreness and rawness which had suddenly taken over his body. It took him a while to realise something more mortifying: that as he was breaking, the man whose thigh he’d been set to sit on brought his own arms around him, and that his hold was firm but not punishing or restricting. For every one of his tremors, his hitching breaths, the General simply held him tighter for a while, and then let him feel himself loose and able to go when his breaths ran free again but he couldn’t move - if he’d tried, he would have fallen on his knees. There was no strength to him and the tears wouldn’t stop, so he couldn’t take his hands off of his face, either.

Pathetic, pitiful, despicable sight.

His spine curved and he tried to hide, as if becoming smaller could have made him invisible. He wanted the beating. He craved for it. This was too much - a display like this had only one answer to it, one lesson which needed repeating. Where was it? Where was the pain? He wanted it; so badly that when it was not forthcoming, his hands turned to nails on his face and then to a fist and he brought his knuckles deep into his own arm, one colliding into bone, the others thrusting into muscle, releasing an ache that spread into the full length of the limb and left his grip weak.

A hand took a hold of that place, then, where his fist had made for an injury, and wrapped around it. It pulled the whole arm down and because of the pain, Geta couldn’t stop it from happening - his muscles didn’t contract, couldn’t - and he turned his face away, tried to breathe. His other wrist was captured, too, and his hands pressed against his chest, arms over arms, the warmth of a body both pressed against his back and holding him still by the front. The moment was passing: the echoes in his ears turning lesser, his shaking dying down again, but he still had trouble swallowing and breathing. There was nothing in the world that he craved more than to let his body be at rest there, soak up the warmth which was there, be in silence, and forget all that was so disgusting about him, so weak, never good enough for anything. If no one had ever said a thing again, he might have been able to believe that this was gentleness, or care, something which could have belonged to him as a child if he’d only been better - more deserving - but he’d always been stupid and worthless.

When would the punishment come?

Was it ever coming?

And if not, what more would he have to do to himself to repeat the lesson? One strike was not enough to drive in the message.

With a sigh, Acacius’s grip of his wrists grew firmer for a while before he let him go again, and as he did so, Geta had already slipped off and stood up and walked half across the room before he so much as knew that he was moving, or that he was able to stay upright at all.

“Thank you for this lesson,” he said tightly, his own voice foreign to his ears. “You’re dismissed.”

The General stood: slowly, in little hurry to move or be gone from the room. His hand brushed through the marble board and examined the pieces upon it one last time. Then, as Geta’s gaze was picking him up from the very corner of his eyes, he turned to look at him instead.

“I wonder what you could have been,” Acacius said quietly, “had your father not been such a cruel man.”

The way in which Geta’s breathing hitched again was audible, and once more, his nails turned to his skin, wanting to hurt, break, claw red marks into it, make it bleed. Weak. Despicable. Disgusting. Worthless. Like beats of his own heart inside his ears.

“You know where to find me should you wish to continue learning, Emperor Geta. Until then - try to think of the full picture, even when those closest to you remain your first priority.”

The General’s absence left the room ringing, but instead of fright, Geta’s chest was now loosening into warmth. It took him a long time to lift his gaze from the floors: the afternoon’s sun was already tinted a warmer, deeper colour than when the door had last opened and closed, but every moment which he’d spent motionless had been one which he had needed to regain control of himself again.

The birdsong, the breeze across the Palatine; the sounds of music from somewhere inside the palaces, and the laugh of children outside. He was safe here, Geta thought, and the ghost of an embrace still played upon his skin when he finally determined himself able to move. There’d been no price attached to this kindness, and Geta’s weakness, in all its reprehensible display, had not been punished. For the first time that he could remember he was entirely unharmed by it - they both were, this time, him and his brother.

If not for the bruises of his own fist, at least. He let his palm trail over the throbbing marks, the only real ghost of his father that still stood in the room with him, and his mouth turned to a snarl.

He’d lose again, he thought. And next time, he’d shut his mind to his father’s will, and would not do his dirty work for him. For tonight as always, he’d seek the only comfort which he knew for it - he’d find his brother, they’d dine and then sleep. It felt a miracle that Caracalla’s touch would only be the second comfort which he’d be granted that day, voluntarily and without reserve.

Pretty boy crying in his expensive silk curtains.

I want him to cry in my arms while I tell him everything is going to be okay :(

i have no reasonable explanation for this

Saw Gladiator II today,,, those weird ass ginger freaks have entranced me I fear

*. 🪷𓂃.

A Geta x Fem!Dancer Fic

A/N: Just a funny idea that came to me when my eyeliner got caught in my contact lenses. Lol! I was just like, it'd be kind of hilarious if this happened to Geta 😆 Might add another chapter or two!

Word Count: 3.9k

Tags & Warnings: period-typical sexism | Brotherly banter, bored emperors, squabbling senators, lulling dances, intense eye contact

Summary: A senator presents a pair of dancers to the emperors, seeking their decision on which of them should feature in the upcoming Festival of Floralia. As Geta observes the more exotic of the two, he suddenly finds himself in a state of tears.

━━━━━━━༻❀*̥˚༺━━━━━━━

Eyeliner Problems

Tap tap tap tap…

Geta rubbed a hand over his eyes tiredly before they shifted sharply at his brother, who was sitting beside him and incessantly tapping his rings against the gold filigree of his seat.

Typically it would not bother him this much, but the lavish party they had enjoyed the night before had run well into the early hours of the morning and Geta had, unfortunately, entirely forgotten about the meeting the Senate had called for.

He blinked and sat up straighter, lowering his hand and attempting to focus on what was being said.

Something about funding. More funding for the coming Festival of Floralia — complete with games and performances. It was always an appealingly licentious event, though also considerably expensive.

Caracalla yawned loudly and Geta dug his nails into his palm as he watched the older men argue amongst themselves. They would argue and try to problem solve before coming up with some solution or another and turn to him for approval. He just had to wait for them to finally get there.

He rolled his neck, the tension and the soreness easing only slightly, and he sighed under his breath. He then reached for his goblet of wine, taking a long sip before sitting forward in his seat, blinking his eyes again and focusing on the words he was hearing.

“-we bring in more foreign dancers, not less! That will incite the crowd and prove a better investment in the long run.”

“It’s a waste of money. The dancers we have will suit just fine.”

“You have to keep things novel. Different. The people will grow bored of the same thing.”

I grow bored… Geta thought morosely.

Around and around they went. He bit down on his teeth, setting his goblet down with a soft clank and running a hand over his mouth. Just get on with it already, I beg you.

“Let us see those dancers fight one another to the death! A brawl!” Caracalla sat up suddenly and bellowed. “The prize?! A night with their emperors!”

Geta sent him a sidelong glance of disapproval before he slid his attention back to the senators. The impression he tried to make of being somewhat professional was always circumvented by these sorts of outbursts. He wanted the senators to take them seriously, but some days it was like an uphill battle.

“Imagine!” His twin continued. “They-”

“Calla…” Geta muttered under his breath, eyes intent on the looks that were cast in their direction.

At this point, most of the older men were used to some level of outrageous remark, and they looked to Geta, as if looking for permission to disregard it. Geta gave a small nod, relieved that they were not overly concerned, though he couldn’t imagine what they might be thinking.

Incompetent, maybe? Ridiculous? He shuddered to consider it.

He gave his heavily-lined eyes a roll before running a hand across his forehead. The more this dragged on, the more restless Caracalla would become, and the more likely future such declarations would be.

He might next suggest to throw the senators themselves into the arena! …which admittedly wasn’t such a terrible thing to imagine.

“Let us compare! We have two dance side by side, one local and one more exotic, and you tell me which of them is more exciting!”

“You intend to bring a pair of women in here?” The other asked, outraged. “That is unacceptable, even to prove a point.”

At least the heat had been taken off of Caracalla, Geta noted.

“Outside then.”

“You’re inconveniencing everyone!”

The other man opened his mouth to retort before Geta breathed in and firmly brought a hand down on the arm of his chair. He stood, voice resonant and firm. “Outside it is! Come, let us see these dancers and resolve the matter.”

The eyes of the senators turned to him in surprise, unused to his interrupting their deliberations before his final decision was called upon.

But he had had more than enough of this for today. Without sparing them another glance, he led the way out of the stuffy room, Caracalla cackling behind him as he moved lazily to follow.

They crossed out toward a balcony before descending a set of stairs to a courtyard. Geta took a seat on one of the benches, Caracalla moving toward one parallel, where he languidly lounged.

Geta lifted a hand once the senators had filtered into the yard with looks of trepidation.

“Let’s get on with it then,” the emperor declared.

The initiator of this entire ordeal summoned one of his servants over. “Bring the girls. Quickly now!”

“You were prepared for this, I see.” The naysayer crossed his arms and shook his head.

Geta leaned forward as he waited, hands clasped together, the bracelets on his wrists glinting in the bright light that filtered down from above them. He ran his thumbs together, rings gliding against each other in a soft clank of metal.

Caracalla tugged on the broad leaf of the plant beside his own bench, tearing it free before proceeding to slowly tear it to shreds.

There was a tense silence across the space, during which there was only the mutters from the senators and the breeze swaying through the trees overhead.

Reflections from the golden laurels upon Geta’s head and the extravagant chain around his neck reflected onto his marble skin, casting upon it strange, warping shapes of light and shadow.

He watched the morphing movements a moment before the soft sound of footsteps echoed upon the paved walkway. A glance upward revealed the returned servant, two women on either side, and a trio of musicians behind them.

Senator Acisculus had certainly been prepared. He probably wanted to capitalize on his investment in exotic entertainment, for which he was beginning to make something of a name for himself. It was a self-interested move, of course, but Geta was inclined to appreciate the ambition of it.

His more reserved opposition, Ectorius, stood by crossly with his arms folded. Geta had a feeling that there wasn’t much of anything that could convince him. His mind was already made up. But perhaps the majority would be swayed and Geta could vote in favor of what they expressed a greater want for. He hoped it would be a decisive thing and that he would not have to continue to bear their grievances.

“My Lords,” Acisculus bowed and cast them a beaming smile before extending a hand toward the pair of women. “I present today’s exhibition. Whichever you find most delights you will be at the forefront of our performances at Floralia’s festival!”

Caracalla clapped loudly, sitting up slightly now that something was about to happen. Geta simply nodded for the man to proceed.

A stronger gust of wind swept over them, warm and fragrant with the scent of orange blossoms. The dust was stirred and Geta reached over with a slight frown to remove the particles that had settled over the exquisite ivory and gold-accented sleeve of the garment he wore.

“I will prevent our Roman dancer first,” the senator motioned for the first woman to step forward.

She complied, gliding forward as her sheer, lavender stola fluttered in the breeze. Geta tilted his head, eyes mildly inspecting. He thought he’d seen her at a few of their performances. She was someone obviously practiced and her expression seemed to further convey that fact.

The musicians began a classic beat and the woman moved rhythmically, her movements solid and vaguely provocative.

Geta glanced at Ectorius, who was nodding approvingly and whispering words to the other senators nearby, no doubt securing their votes in favor of this one. The emperor then flicked his eyes toward his twin, who had barely spared the woman glance,having gone back to his destruction of the nearby plants. He cast down the petals of a flower, yawning widely.

A solid performance, yet certainly without much novelty. Entertaining enough, but hardly exciting.

When she had finished her dance, a racous wave of applause sounded from Ectorius and the senators nearby. Geta lifted his hands and offered her a bit of unenthusiastic applause as well.

The woman bowed her head, golden hair falling in waves as she did.

“Thank you, Marcella.” Acisculus motioned her aside before calling the other forward.

Geta adjusted his stance expectantly. This was the one which the man had been promoting. The one whom he seemed quite convinced would draw the crowds.

Let’s see if you’re up to the task, he thought, hoping for some level of exhilaration.

“One of my most treasured finds,” Acisculus declared with a wide grin. “A rare find from somewhere within the mysterious orient. Discovered by happenstance within the ports of Egypt.”

The woman removed the veil she had been wearing — for dramatic effect, Geta supposed — and revealed a set of features he hadn’t quite seen on anyone before. Her dark eyes had a slant to them, her cheekbones high and well-defined. There was a slender, delicate quality to her figure and features, and her black hair looked as smooth and sleek as silk.

His mouth twitched upward, something bordering on desire rising in his gaze as he held her gentle stare.

“Is this what they’re hiding out in the far east?” Caracalla interjected, sitting forward too. “You don’t look like you’re capable of much, but the softer, sweeter dispositions can be surprising, can’t they, brother?”

Geta shot him a look, bristling a little at the obvious interest his brother had in her too. He gave the senator a nod though, urging him to begin.

Acisculus motioned for the musicians and they struck up a surprisingly slow rhythm, before the woman began to move her hands in strange, flowing motions. Her movements were equally slow, with graceful turns of her body and shifts in posture, as if she were nothing but a wisp of wind.

Geta blinked, waiting for the dance to take a shift. To reach some sort of climax, but it continued its lulling serenade. He sighed as his posture slumped, somewhat disappointed. Though it was an artful display, there was nothing particularly enticing about it. It was as reserved-looking as the woman herself.

This was what Acisculus believed would draw the crowd?

Caracalla chuckled. “What is she doing? Mimicking a sea at rest?”

Another shaft of wind swept over the courtyard, shifting the dust and sweeping over them. Geta blinked as a bit of it struck his eyes and he lifted a hand to wipe at them before a harsher sting had him turning his head to blink fiercely.

He waited it to pass as his eyes watered, but it only grew worse. A glance down at his hand revealed a smear of the kohl he’d used to line his eyes and he reasoned it was the reason for this uncomfortable stabbing sensation.

A mess of it I’ve made, surely, he thought in frustration as he gritted his teeth.

He blinked a few more times before attempting to shift his focus back to where the woman still danced, that dreadful breeze fluttering over her gown and sending her feather-light hair flowing across her face. She gave even further impression at being in oneness with the air.

But the vision of her obscured again, watering and distorting and Geta glanced down, cursing under his breath as he breathed harshly.

“Emperor?” He heard Acisculus ask. “Are you well?”

Geta lifted a hand to wave him off before lifting the other to cover his eyes.

There was a moment before Caracalla seemed to notice his state. He gave a sharp laugh before leaning toward him. “What has gotten into you, brother? Are you actually crying?”

“Of course not!” He lowered his hand in aggravation before wincing again. "Oh- He breathed in shakily, body trembling with it. “By the gods…”

“Is it the dancing? Does it move you so?” Caracalla asked, still amused. “How flushed you are!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Geta mumbled, voice thick before he tilted back his head and took several long breaths, warmth leaking furiously from his eyes and streaking down his face.

“Well well!” Caracalla announced. “It seems we have our answer, senators! This dancer has moved by brother to tears. We simply must have her as this festival’s lead!”

Geta shook his head. “Wait-” he breathed out, blinked, widened his eyes, then directed his focus back to the group before him. All of the senators were staring at him in stunned silence, surprise visible on their faces. They seemed unsure of what to make of what had just happened.

Senator Acisculus, though, was smiling behind a pair of clasped hands.

“As lovely as your dancer is,” Geta’s eyes flicked toward the woman. “I don’t think-”

“Bring her here! Let us get a good look at her!” His twin interrupted loudly.

Acisculus bowed his head enthusiastically before urging the woman to step toward the pair of emperors. Geta found it interesting that these men chose to unquestionably heed Caracalla’s orders when it actually suited them.

The corners of Geta’s mouth pulled down in dissatisfaction before he shifted his attention to the foreign woman as she drew forward. Her eyes were held low, hands clasped together meekly.

Really, how was any of this meant to be exciting? He sighed, left eye still stinging in a way that seemed to radiate across that whole side of his face. He blinked at her as she slowly lifted her gaze, the movement measured as she shifted her attention first to Caracalla, who had ordered her forward, before settling it on Geta.

He stared back at her somewhat impartially as he lifted a hand and brought it over his eye, leaning forward to rest his elbow on his knee. There, at least the tears were held back. The pressure helped with the jabbing sensation too.

Something unreadable passed through her dark, exotic eyes, before she pressed her lips tighter thoughtfully, glanced to her feet, and then met his stare again.

Geta tilted his head, faintly curious what it was that had passed beneath the stoic expression she wore before she opened her mouth and spoke, the sound of her voice as wispy and delicate as everything else about her — her appearance, her movements, the robe she wore — everything, he noticed, except for her eyes, which held a surprising weight. It made him wonder what was churning beneath the veneer of gentleness she wore.

“If I may…” she said in strangely accented, unpracticed Latin before motioning toward herself and then at him. “Would you let me help?”

Geta’s brows creased in confusion at her meaning and she was quick to explain by way of indicating her own eye.

“Help?” Caracalla asked as Geta breathed in and gave the woman a dubious look. “What’d you mean help?”

“Will you allow me to come forward?” She asked again, glancing between he and his brother. “I will assist with what afflicts you.”

She bent her head in another respectful bow before fixing her unwavering gaze on him again.

The emperor deliberated another moment before lifting a hand and beckoning her forward.

The woman neared him with an unhurried gait and Geta slowly straightened in his seat, eyeing her approach intently.

She stopped and stood over him, unreadable things within the dark depths that stared back as he inclined his head up to her. The woman offered a fraction of a smile before she slowly reached for his hand, soft fingertips grazing his skin, her expression careful and continuing to ask for his approval. Geta replied with a small nod before her fragile hand fully gripped his, prying it away from his eye.

His gaze fell to her hold, to the way her slender fingers encircled his palm. Her skin was so thin he could see the network of veins in her wrist and he could see the movements of things beneath her skin as she settled his hand onto his lap. As she gently released him, he again noticed those streaks of kohl on the pale skin of his hand and tried not to consider how unsightly the state of his face must be.

Geta felt a brush against his forehead and his eyes were drawn back up to hers. She smoothed his hair aside and leaned in closer, the fragrance of jasmine pulsing from her tall neck as her soft, warmth breaths feathered against his cheek.

“Open your eye,” she directed airily. “And look up.”

Geta released a tense breath before fluttering his eye open, wincing at the sting before he tilted his head back and looked above her, up to the towering tree overhead, where the leaves swayed against the dappled sunlight. The sight blurred as the sting returned and the woman rested one hand upon his shoulder to steady herself before bringing the other over his eye. Her fingers hovered there, ghosting against his eyelashes as she leaned in to inspect him.

“Hold still.”

Geta complied before flinching as she brushed a finger directly against his eye. It was one swift, precise move and then she was easing back.

“Is that any better?”

He straightened his head and blinked his eyes a few times before slowly nodding, noting in relief that the jabbing was gone. He sniffed and lifted a hand to swipe more of the condensation away. “What was it?”

As answer, she lifted her index finger, revealing the small lash there.

“Ah,” Geta replied as he glanced to it with both brows raised. “I see. That explains it.”

He lifted his hands then, running them along both eyes to try and remove the smudged lines of kohl.

“Whoa!” Caracalla rose from him seat, clapping his hands. "Well done! Surgical precision that was." He cackled. “I guess I spoke too soon. It seems my brother wasn’t moved to tears at all. Was only a little lash that plagued him.”

Geta shot him a swift glare as he continued trying to make his appearance presentable. How he wished for a mirror! He glanced at the woman still standing before him and then leaned toward her. “Have I missed any?” He lifted a hand to indicate the dark lines smeared there.

She glanced once between his hand and his face before stepping forward again with a small shake of her head and bringing a finger to the corner of one of his eyes, where she firmly pressed it against the crease there. She tilted her head in assessment before humming beneath her breath and stepping back again.

Geta felt a trace of warmth from where she’d touched him and his stare fixed on her again. He gave a purposeful nod. “I thank you for your assistance.” His mouth lifted into a crooked smile as he leaned forward again. “What is your name?”

“Akemi,” she answered simply and with another bow of her head as her hands clasped together in front of her.

“Akemi…” He repeated, smile inching higher. “And where are you from? Before Egypt, I mean.”

Another miniscule smile from her and a soft hum, indicating she already knew what he was asking. “A small island far in the east. Oyashima, we call it.”

“Hm…” He replied, glancing at the senators surrounding them. They all continued to watch their exchange as if not quite sure what to make of it. “I have not heard of it.”

“We are a small nation.” She supplied.

He breathed out a laugh. Yes, one of those insignifanct places in the furthest reaches of the map. Hardly worth glancing at.

And yet, he thought as his eyes drifted back to her. I am all the same curious about this place. What mysteries might such a seemingly unassuming place as that be hiding? As unthreatening as this woman herself was. Unthreatening, yet carrying such profound things within.

“Perhaps I will ask you sometime,” he tilted his head, beaming at his own suggestion that they two would be awarded another moment with one another. How would she respond to that? “Just how it was you came to Egyptian shores. And how you were discovered by Senator Acisculus here.” He gauged her reaction closely, eyes sparking with something roguish.

She stared at him in silence, eyes still frustratingly unreadable, before she slowly nodded. “If that is something you wish to discuss, I would be happy to oblige.”

A reserved answer, but Geta felt somewhat victorious all the same. He ran his eyes over her again, watching the way the wind danced over her, as if she might be taken up and carried away with it. Carried back to whatever mysterious island she’d come from. His eyes then flicked to Acisculus, who stood by with a recognizable, excited gleam.

“So?” The senator asked. “Will you feature her at the festival?”

Geta glanced between him and Akemi, considering again. The dance…that lulling dance. He’d nearly disregarded it. But perhaps there was something to be said for allowing oneself to be slowly drawn in. A little patience and a closer look and there was something exciting to be found there.

“Yes,” he answered, eyes burning as he stared at the woman. “She will be featured.”

The man clapped loudly, there were protests from those who’d been opposed, but the only thing the emperor could focus on was the way the slender woman’s little smile tilted the corner of her mouth higher, something burning back at him.

He tilted his head then, eyes narrowing slightly. Had she anticipated this? Was there something ambitious hiding behind that mask? Perhaps it should have angered him, the thought that she might have subtly manipulated him into featuring her, but it had been more of an advantageous maneuver, hadn’t it? After all, it was not as if she had thrown first that dust, then the kohl, then finally the lash into his eyes. She’d recognized a need for assistance and provided it, as she should. A thing which had proven mutually beneficial to them both.

And why should they not get on one another’s good side? There was much more which could be gained.

No, Geta did not mind. It merely added to that hidden gravitas she held. Ambition, when not a threat, was an attractive quality.

“Let us have that conversation sometime soon, hm?” he said as he rose from his seat and approached her. He brought a hand beneath Akemi’s chin, lifting her head to gaze upon it fully. “And perhaps we might also discuss more of these featured performances in the future.”

A spark again. Flashing through her eyes. Geta smirked down at her. I see you, he thought as he smoothed his thumb across her chin once before releasing her.

There was another silent moment between them, his eyes flicking over each of her features in turn, analyzing and admiring them before he finally turned. “Come, brother.” He announced. “Let us make ourselves presentable for the races this afternoon.”

“Make yourself presentable, you mean!” Caracalla moved to follow. “I was not the one reduced to a weeping mess at the sight of such a delicate woman.”

“That was not the way of it.”

“Oh really? What is your name?” Caracalla mocked as their voices followed their exit, the courtyard falling behind them. "Where are you from?  Let us talk sometime."

“Enough.” Geta snapped before they both disappeared from view, Akemi’s dark eyes lingering on the spot they had vacated.

A victorious feeling surged through her as strongly as it had the emperor, before she glanced to her hand, where lines of the kohl he’d worn had also marked her skin.

A symbol of the success she’d claimed.

.• | Emperor Geta 𓂃✨ૢ·̩͙ Take Me Back to Eden |

-•-•-•-•-

This song fit him so well I had to make an edit for it 🤍 Such a tragic character...

Also available to watch on TikTok under my username: sayukixiii

-•-•-•-•-

Song Credit: Sleep Token - Take Me Back to Eden (Orchestral Version)