{Amor Omnia Vincit-Lucius Verus Aurelius}
Chapter 1-Non desistas non exieris: Never give up, never surrender
SUMMARY: Tillotama is sent away, she feels helpless emotionless but she knows that she has to be strong and if it is not for her then for her family. Rome has been informed of the gift that is sent their way, and that seems to tug at Geta's and Caracalla's attention.
PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x South Indian OC
WORD COUNT: 4.3K
WARNINGS: none for now :}
With the decision made, Tillotama began the long journey toward Rome, a path heavy with the scent of farewell and the sharp sting of a fate beyond her control. The kings had offered their blessings, but their words were hollow, trembling with an unspoken sorrow, as if they, too, understood the weight of the sacrifice. It was not a send-off, but a quiet mourning, as though the earth itself wept for the daughter they had chosen to offer.
Her retinue was vast, a procession of people bound by duty, not choice. Over three hundred women trailed behind her, their silken garments fluttering in the wind, their movements graceful but weary. They were not in awe of the journey; they were bound by it. Each step forward was one less toward home and one closer to an uncertain fate. Nearly two houndred men walked in grim silence, their faces hard but not unkind, their presence a thin wall against the danger that lurked in the unknown ahead. They were her guards, yes, but more than that—they were her tether to the world she knew, even if it was slipping away with every mile.
At the heart of it all, as always, was her family. Her three sisters walked beside her, their faces drawn with an expression that was too familiar. Fear. Pride. Desperation. None of them spoke, but their glances met hers—quick, furtive, and filled with so much unspoken emotion that it was enough to make Tillotama's heart ache.
They were afraid of what she was about to face, of the distance that would grow between them. But they knew, just as she did, that there was no turning back. Her mother moved with an eerie calmness, her expression unreadable but taut with some quiet burden. Tillotama could feel the weight of her mother’s gaze on her, though she said nothing. It was the weight of years, of choices made in silence, of love and sacrifice wrapped in a language only mothers knew.
Her eyes, however, betrayed her. Beneath the quiet composure, there was a flicker of something—something too raw, too deep for words. A mother's grief, layered over with the knowledge that this was the only path left for her daughter to walk. Behind them, her grandmother walked with the grace of age, slow but deliberate. She was frail, but her presence held the kind of power that only the most seasoned souls possessed.
Her every step seemed to carry the weight of generations, the unspoken knowledge of lives lived through hardships and survival. Her eyes, sharp and clear, took in every detail, missing nothing, yet offering no comment. She had seen enough of life to know that words could be futile in the face of destiny.
And her aunt—ever the sentinel—moved with a quiet vigilance, her sharp eyes scanning their surroundings like a hawk. Fierce and protective, she was the one who never spoke unless necessary, and even then, her words were measured, heavy with meaning. She had always been the first to act, the first to fight when there was danger.
But now, her movements were a little slower, her expression a little darker, as though the weight of the unknown was finally starting to press down on her. Then there was her cousin. He was a young man, only a few years older than Tillotama, but in the way he carried himself—his shoulders set straight, his gaze forward—he seemed older, as though he had long ago accepted a burden none of them could fully understand.
His presence beside her was comforting in a way, but it also made her feel more alone—he wasn’t here to offer comfort, but to remind her of the path they all had to walk.
As the procession continued, the weight of their sacrifice grew more palpable with every step. It was as though they were moving through a dream, where everything was familiar, yet nothing felt real. Each footfall took them farther from home and deeper into the shadow of Rome, a beast that hungered for more than just land.
It devoured hope, identity, and future. With every mile, the pull of the empire grew stronger, its presence a looming, invisible force. The journey halted abruptly, the quiet hum of the procession fading into a heavy stillness. Before them stood the ship. It was not the graceful vessel of adventure they had envisioned in tales—no, this was something far more ominous.
The ship loomed like a dark sentinel, its tall masts cutting through the fog like the spires of a cathedral, its black hull a stark contrast to the pale sky. It was a vessel of passage, yes, but also a prison, a cage of destiny that would carry them to a world they could not begin to understand. Tillotama stood at the front, her heart beating louder than the silence around her.
The enormity of what lay ahead pressed against her chest, choking her. This is it, she thought. The point of no return. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the handrail of the ship, feeling the cool wood beneath her fingertips. The world around her had grown quiet, too quiet, as though the earth itself was holding its breath.
The ship waited, its towering form stretching into the sky, a creature that had no soul, but beckoned all who crossed its threshold to step into its dark maw. Behind her, her mother stepped forward, her voice low but carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid things. “You must be brave, my daughter. For all of us.” Tillotama’s throat tightened, but she could not find the words to respond.
What was there to say? Brave? How could she be brave when she didn’t even understand the journey she was about to embark on? But she nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement. She was not sure if it was for her mother or for herself. Her cousin’s voice broke through the silence, firm and steady. “We will all survive this. And if fate has other plans... we will face them, together.” His words were like a quiet promise, one that spoke of strength but also of something more. It was as if he knew the path ahead would not only test her, but all of them.
The subtext of his words was clear—he, too, had his doubts, his fears. But he would not voice them, not now. Not yet. Tillotama looked at him, her gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary. There was something there, something unspoken between them, a bond forged in shared experience, in the understanding that none of them would be the same after this journey.
Tillotama paused at the foot of the ship’s gangplank, the cool, salty breeze brushing against her face like an uninvited whisper. She let out a deep, measured breath, willing herself to calm the storm within. Her hands tightened around the folds of her garments as if grounding herself to the present.
For a moment, she closed her eyes, shutting out the towering ship, the murmurs of the crowd, and the weight of countless eyes on her back.
One step at a time, she told herself.
One breath, one step, and nothing more.
Once aboard the ship, Tillotama hesitated before turning back, her gaze latching onto the land she had known all her life. The shoreline stood shrouded in the golden haze of early morning, yet she could still see the familiar spires of the temple peeking through the mist.
They seemed smaller now, almost fragile against the immensity of the horizon. This was no simple farewell; it was a severing. Each breath she took felt heavier, her chest tight with the weight of memories. The laughter she had shared with her sisters in the marketplace, the gentle scolding of her grandmother as she fussed over every fold of her sari—all of it now felt distant, as though the ship itself had already pulled her beyond the reach of those moments.
Her fingers dug into the rough wooden railing, the splinters biting her palms. The pain was grounding, a reminder that this was real. She was not dreaming. Behind her, the deck bustled with activity—the shouts of sailors hoisting sails, the creak of wood straining against the current, and the faint murmur of her family clustered nearby. The sharp scent of pine tar mingled with the briny air, foreign and sharp, making her stomach twist.
“Tillo?” a small voice broke through her thoughts, trembling with uncertainty. She turned to see Bhumi standing there, clutching the edge of her sari like a lifeline. Her youngest sister’s wide, tear-glossed eyes locked onto hers.
In them, Tillotama saw everything she couldn’t say aloud—the fear, the confusion, the desperate hope that her elder sister might somehow have all the answers. “I’m scared,” Bhumi whispered, her voice barely audible over the ship’s groaning timbers. “Will they… will they let us come back someday?” Tillotama knelt to her sister’s level, smoothing the loose strands of hair from her tear-streaked face.
Her throat tightened. She couldn’t bear to tell Bhumi the truth, that even she didn’t know the answer. Instead, she forced a soft smile, the kind that had always soothed Bhumi’s worries before. “One day,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm churning inside her. “When the winds are kinder and the gods are more forgiving, we’ll come back.” Bhumi’s lip trembled, her small hands gripping Tillotama’s as if to anchor herself.
“Promise?” Tillotama hesitated, the weight of that word like a stone in her chest. She didn’t believe in promises anymore. Not after the court’s decision. Not after watching her father bow to Rome’s demand. But looking into Bhumi’s eyes, she knew she couldn’t deny her this small comfort. “I promise,” she said, pressing her forehead gently to Bhumi’s.
A throat cleared behind her. Tillotama rose to find her cousin standing nearby. He was older by only a few years but carried himself with a quiet gravity that made him seem far older.
His dark eyes scanned the deck, his expression unreadable. “She’s just a child,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You shouldn’t tell her what you can’t guarantee.” Tillotama bristled at his tone but kept her voice calm. “And would you have me tell her the truth? That we may never see home again? That we’re being sent to a world where we’ll be nothing but pawns?”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he glanced at Bhumi, who had retreated slightly, her small frame trembling. His expression softened just enough to betray the protectiveness he worked so hard to hide. “I’m not here to argue with you, Tillo,” he said after a pause. “I just… I won’t let anything happen to her. To any of you.” Tillotama studied him for a moment, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.
For all his bluntness, she knew his words were not empty. He had been her shadow since the journey began, always watching, always ready. “Thank you,” she said quietly. He gave a small nod, his gaze drifting back to the shore. “We’ll need to be ready for what comes next. This isn’t going to get easier.” As he walked away, Tillotama turned back to Bhumi, who had wrapped her arms around herself, staring out at the open water.
The ship gave a sudden lurch as the sailors loosened the moorings, the sound of rushing water echoing through the hull. “Tillo,” Bhumi said again, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think the gods are angry with us? Is that why we’re leaving?”
Tillotama’s heart twisted.
How could she answer that? She crouched beside her sister, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t think the gods are angry,” she said softly. “Sometimes… the winds take us places we don’t expect. But that doesn’t mean we’ve done something wrong. It just means we have to find our way.”
Bhumi didn’t reply, but she leaned into Tillotama’s side, seeking comfort in her warmth. For a long moment, Tillotama allowed herself to just sit there, holding her sister as the ship began to move. The shoreline grew smaller, the temple spires fading into the mist until they were nothing but distant memories.
She stared out at the horizon, the enormity of what lay ahead pressing down on her chest like an iron weight. She thought of the Romans, their cold eyes and insatiable hunger for power. She thought of the father who had sent her here, the kings who had justified their actions as necessary sacrifices.
She thought of Bhumi, and her cousin, and her family on the deck. And for the first time, she allowed herself to think of what she would need to become to survive.
Days blurred into nights, the horizon a seamless curve of water and sky. The ocean stretched endlessly, its vastness overwhelming, offering no hint of land or respite. The ship creaked under the weight of its journey, its rhythmic sway a monotonous lullaby that offered no comfort.
For Tillotama, it was a prison afloat, the walls of her cabin closing in like a cage. She sat on the silk-covered cushions, her body still but her mind restless. Her long black hair spilled around her, tangling with the fabric in a cascade of shadow against crimson. Her mismatched eyes stared at a crack in the wooden wall, a fissure she had fixated on for hours. It felt symbolic—of her, of her world—fractured, barely holding together, threatening to split open entirely.
Her thoughts spiraled as they often did. The court’s opulent halls loomed in her memory, her father’s voice ringing clear as he spoke her name. He had looked at her, and she had seen the regret in his eyes, the helplessness he had failed to hide. Yet still, he had said it. Tillotama. The name had echoed like a bell tolling for the dead. She had felt her sisters’ gazes burning into her, but she hadn’t faltered. She hadn’t let her voice crack or her hands tremble.
That moment, she had been steel. Now, in the solitude of her cabin, she was breaking. Her head tilted back, her eyes closing against the flickering light of the oil lamp. She exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself, when a hesitant knock at the door drew her from her thoughts. She didn’t answer, but the door creaked open regardless. Rambha stepped in first, her sari catching the dim light, a muted shimmer of gold and green. Her presence was steady, her movements deliberate, as though she were walking into a room where any misstep might shatter the fragile balance. Behind her came Ezhili, younger, smaller, with wide, uncertain eyes that darted around the room before settling on Tillotama.
“You’ve been in here all day,” Rambha said, her tone gentle but firm. She shut the door behind her and approached, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. “The ship isn’t that large. People have noticed.” Tillotama didn’t move. Her gaze shifted only slightly, enough to glance at Rambha before returning to the crack in the wall.
“Let them notice,” she said, her voice flat. “What does it matter? They’ve already taken everything else.” Ezhili hesitated in the doorway before stepping inside. “Tillo,” she began softly, “we brought you some food. You haven’t eaten since morning.” She held up a small tray of bread and fruit, her hands trembling just enough to make the grapes wobble.
“I’m not hungry,” Tillotama replied, her tone sharper now, though it lacked true malice.
Rambha sighed, kneeling beside her older sister. “You can’t go on like this,” she said quietly. “You think shutting us out will make it easier, but it won’t. You’re not just carrying your burden, Tillo. You’re carrying ours too.”
Tillotama’s eyes flicked to Rambha, a spark of anger flashing through them. “Don’t talk to me about burdens,” she said. “You think I don’t know what I’m carrying? I was chosen to be the perfect offering, remember? The graceful daughter. The willing sacrifice. I don’t have the luxury of faltering, Rambha. I don’t get to cry or rage or… or run.”
“You think we don’t feel it too?” Rambha’s voice was quiet but steely, her gaze unwavering. “You think we don’t see what this is doing to you? What it’s doing to all of us? But walling yourself off won’t change anything. It won’t bring us home. It won’t make any of this fair.”
“Fair,” Tillotama repeated, the word dripping with bitterness. She sat up, her hair tumbling over her shoulders as she faced her sisters. “What part of this is fair, Rambha? That I’m being sent away as a symbol? That we’re here, in the middle of this godforsaken ocean, with no say in what happens next? Do you think I don’t know the stakes? That every move I make is under a watchful eyes, every breath I take judged as a reflection of our people? I know it. I feel it. And I hate it.”
Ezhili, who had been silent, stepped closer. Her voice was trembling but determined. “It’s not fair,” she said, her words halting but sincere. “But you’re not alone, Tillo. You’re never alone. You have us.”
Tillotama’s expression softened, but her voice remained cold. “You shouldn’t have to be here,” she said, her gaze shifting to Ezhili. “You should be at home, safe, not dragged into this because of me.”
Ezhili shook her head. “We’re here because we want to be. Because we’re your family. And if they think they can break you, they’re wrong. They’ll have to break all of us.”
The words hung in the air, their weight pressing against the walls of the small cabin. Tillotama stared at her youngest sister, her resolve wavering for the first time. Slowly, she reached out, pulling Ezhili and Rambha into a tight embrace. For a long moment, they stayed like that, their collective strength an anchor against the storm of their shared fate.
When they finally pulled apart, Rambha smoothed the folds of her sari and stood. “The sun will set soon,” she said. “You should come up. If they see you hiding, it will only give them more power.”
Tillotama nodded, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I’ll come,” she said quietly. “Just… give me a moment.”
Her sisters hesitated before stepping out, their footsteps fading into the hum of the ship. Alone again, Tillotama looked at the crack in the wall. It hadn’t grown wider, she realized. It was the same as it had been. Solid. Holding.
She stood slowly, smoothing her dress. Her reflection stared back at her from a small, polished bronze mirror on the wall. The face she saw was tired, yes, but not broken.
“If they want a perfect offering,” she murmured to herself, “they’ll get one. But it will be on my terms.”
With a final deep breath, she stepped toward the door. The sea stretched endlessly beyond it, but Tillotama wasn’t ready to drown just yet.
ROME
The throne room of the Roman Empire was a grand spectacle, a testament to the indulgence and wealth of the empire. Gold glinted in every corner, draped across statues, columns, and walls. The air was thick with the rich scent of wine, roasted meats, and spices, while the laughter and chatter of banquets echoed throughout the city. Yet in the heart of this lavish display of excess, sat the twin emperors, Caracalla and Geta. Their presence alone was enough to command the room, but their expressions betrayed an apathy, a deep-seated boredom that no amount of luxury seemed capable of dispelling.
Caracalla leaned back in his throne, wine spilling slightly over the rim of his goblet as he twirled it between his fingers. His gaze wandered, utterly uninterested in the entertainers dancing before him, their movements elegant but hollow in his eyes. He glanced over at Geta, who sat with a hand resting on his cheek, his eyes fixed on some distant thought.
"I can't remember the last time something actually amused me," Caracalla muttered, his voice tinged with impatience.
Geta let out a low sigh, his gaze shifting briefly from the ceiling to his younger brother. "You’re not the only one," he replied, his voice smooth, almost disinterested. "Is this really what they think will keep us entertained? As if we haven't seen it all before." He flicked a finger dismissively, the silk of his tunic rustling as he adjusted his position.
Caracalla gave a lazy chuckle, swirling his wine. "Perhaps they think we’re like children, easily pleased with any entertaiment" He leaned back, watching the performers with mild disinterest. "The nerve of them, really. As if that’s all we need to distract us."
"Indeed," Geta said, his tone laced with cynicism, "but here we are, surrounded by all this and still bored out of our minds." He gestured to the opulence around them— the flowing wine, the abundance of food, the women at their feet. "It’s absurd. Yet they keep bringing more."
Before Caracalla could respond, the heavy doors to the throne room creaked open. A messenger stepped inside, his posture stiff with formality, but there was an air of nervousness about him, the kind that came with delivering unexpected news. He bowed low before the emperors, awaiting their acknowledgment before speaking.
"Speak," Geta said, his voice cool but commanding, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the messenger’s anxious expression.
The messenger hesitated for a moment, then straightened, the words escaping his lips with an almost palpable sense of anticipation. "Your majesties, a gift from the East has been sent. A... a woman, an offering to your grandeur."
Caracalla’s eyes flickered to Geta, a spark of curiosity finally breaking through his boredom. Geta, however, remained composed, his expression unreadable.
"A woman?" Caracalla repeated, a hint of surprise in his voice. "For us?" He raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. "I wonder what kind of gift this is. A rare beauty, no doubt."
The messenger’s voice dropped lower, his words laced with awe. "Not just any beauty, Caesar. She is said to be extraordinary. So captivating, it is said even the gods would desire her presence in their courts. She is a dancer, a poet, and a woman of... remarkable grace and wisdom. A rare gift from India itself."
Geta leaned forward slightly, his posture more alert now. "Remarkable, you say? Tell us more about this *gift*," he said, his tone sharp with interest, though he kept his composure. "A woman whose beauty rivals that of the gods? You speak of her as if she’s... otherworldly."
The messenger swallowed, visibly nervous under their intense gaze. "She is... her name is Tillotama. And they say she possesses not only beauty but talents that could rival any in the world. A dancer whose movements could make the gods weep, a poet whose words are like music to the soul. She is said to be a true wonder."
Caracalla’s lips curled into a small, amused smile. "A poet, huh?" he mused, tapping his fingers on the armrest of his throne. "So, she dances, she writes... What does she do to keep the gods interested? What else is she hiding?"
Geta's eyes remained on the messenger, though his voice was now tinged with a more thoughtful edge. "It sounds like she is more than just a pretty face," he said quietly. "But we’ve been sent many ‘gifts’ from the East before, and none of them have impressed me." His gaze flicked to Caracalla. "What do you think, brother? Another woman to amuse us? Or is this one truly as special as they say?"
Caracalla shrugged, still leaning back in his throne, though the intrigue was growing in his eyes. "I’m not sure," he said slowly. "But I suppose we’ll see for ourselves, won’t we?" His voice had a slight edge of excitement now, though he tried to hide it behind his usual sarcasm. "If she’s as magnificent as they say, maybe she’ll actually be worth our time."
Geta didn’t answer immediately, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the messenger’s words. There was something about the way they spoke of her, the reverence in their voices, that stirred something in him. He was a man of power, used to being in control, and yet the idea that this woman—this Tillotama—could be more than just another fleeting distraction piqued his interest.
"You’ll humor them, won’t you?" Caracalla teased, sensing the shift in his brother’s demeanor. "Don’t worry, Geta. We’ll see her. You can decide if she’s worth the trouble or not. But I think I’ll be curious to see this otherworldly beauty for myself."
Geta’s gaze shifted back to his younger brother, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. "I’m not a fool, Caracalla. I know the game they’re playing. But I do think we should see her. If nothing else, it might give us some entertainment for a change."
The messenger, sensing the conversation had turned, bowed again and began to retreat from the room. "Tillotama will arrive within the week, Caesar. She is said to be a woman unlike any other. We... we await your judgment." As the messenger departed, Geta and Caracalla sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of the messenger’s words settling between them. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, there was something new, something intriguing, on the horizon.
Caracalla broke the silence with a lazy grin, his voice low but charged with anticipation. "I’m already tired of the banquets, Geta. Maybe this Tillotama will bring something worth our time."
