summary: In the small town near Austin, Texas, you are trapped in a life of rigid expectations and silent suffering. As the preacher's daughter, you endure the mental and physical abuse of your father while your mother, bound by obedience, offers quiet love. Your longing for a father's warmth finds an unexpected solace in Joel Miller, your father's best friend and neighbor. In Joel's presence, you discover a forbidden sanctuary, where your yearning heart is met with a gentle strength you've never known.
warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, pedophilia, cannibalism, human trafficking, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.
𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡
❝ to my love, Joel.
,...found you just to tell you that I made it real far, i never blamed you for loving me the way that you did.
while you were torn apart, i would still wait with you there.
don't think about it too hard, honey.
or you'll never sleep a wink at night again.
and don't worry about me and these green eyes,
baby, just know that i love you.
and i'll see you when you get here.
i love you forever, Joel... ❞
THE PLAYLIST! (on spotify)👰🏼♀️
the preacher's daughter ▪️ dbf! joel miller
MASTERLIST!🐇
Chapter 1: "But I always knew in the end, no one was coming to save me,"
Chapter 2: "Because that's how my daddy raised me,"
Chapter 3: "I watched him show his love through shades of black and blue"
Chapter 4: "He looks like he works with his hands, and smells like Marlboro reds,"
Chapter 5: "Because for the first time since I was a child, I could see a man who wasn't angry,"
Chapter 6: "Let him make a woman out of me,"
Chapter 7: "You wanna fuck me right now?"
Chapter 8: "The fates already fucked me sideways,"
Chapter 9: "Christ, forgive these bones I'm hiding,"
Chapter 10: "and that's why I could never go back home,"
Chapter 11: "I don't care where as long as you're with me,"
Chapter 12: "If it's meant to be, then it will be."
"I'm tired of you still tied to me, Bleeding whenever you want. Too tired to move, too tired to leave"
summary: A girl believes giving everything is the same as being loved. Carried her family’s hunger like a second heartbeat, learned to stay quiet, to endure, to become useful before becoming whole. Love came as a man, and she leaned into him until her name thinned into devotion, until sacrifice felt holy and disappearance felt necessary. This is a girlhood written in quiet pain, where love is mistaken for survival, and everything she gives slowly takes her away from herself.
warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, violence, mentions of suicide, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, loss of virginity, age gap, daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, no Ellie, angst, smut A LOT, innocent and pure reader. any other details will be explain throughout the story.
I got cheated on from my fiance, i just found out today, he fucked other women when he was drunk blacked out 4 months ago, we were doing LDR at that time. (on my graduation day where I had a huge fight with my dad, he strangled me)
I also almost got r4p3d at New Year's party by some random guy while i was trying to protect my fiance from doing something stupid while he was heavily intoxicated.
there’s a lot of happening in life, good and bad, but i made it so far. i just resigned my 9 to 5 job to move to another country with my fiance (away from my toxic parents) he saves me and i can’t wait to have a new exciting life with him.
hopefully by that I have a lot of time to write again :)
how’s your life, honey? hope life treating you all well.
The Preacher’s Daughter visual edits by the amazing @cordycepsdisease on TikTok!
song: Harvest moon by Neil Young
•
Thank you sooo much once again for the beautiful edits! This suit my vision when I wrote it🥺🥺 Definitely nailed it!🤍🤍🤍 You guys check out their page too, they edited lots of incredible Joel Miller and other Pedro Pascal’s characters!
I’m a new writer! How do you get inspo for your writing? You write so beautifully!
Hi! Thank you so much! Well, for Preacher’s Daughter, I took soo many references, if anyone notice, I took a lot from the book Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov, Pale fire by him too, My dark vanessa by Kate Elizabeth Russell, and a lot of movie and song references. Mostly I took inspired from Lolita, as the characters like Negan, you will notice it resembles Clare Quilty. The way Joel looking all over the states for Preacher’s daughter, like Humbert looking over Lolita after she disappeared with Quilty. But I did not make Joel like Humbert (HUMBERT IS THE FUCKING WORST)
And I took some of the scenes from my real experiences in real life with my real ex boyfriend and some my current boyfriend too.
But for the words, I was inspired by Vladimir Nabokov on how he was very specifically describing everything he sees and the characters felt. I love that, it makes it really deep, like you can almost touch the stars and smells the grass.
also i took a lot of vocab from old english classic literature, my professors, and yeah asking some for synonym or such things to chat gpt (i didn’t ask the robot to wrote it for Christ’s sake)
and yes mostly Lolita. I love the book so so much. I DID NOT ROMANTICIZE LOLITA. but as an Englit student, the book was so beautifully written.
You said you’re a new writer right? I’ll say you will get soook much fun in writing! just be yourself and express yourself in writing, it’s so much fun when you do that!🤍
Hey Doll 💕 Honestly, I’m so sorry you had to experience this. I’ve been reading your work for a while and that’s no way this is IA generated.
Everything you write comes from the heart, it’s emotionally powerful and so real. I said that because I read Preacher’s Daughter and that was the hell of a journey to me. The best thing I read this year. I even start listening to Ethel Cain because of you.
So just take your time, and keep writing your stories. You’re not a shitty person and you deserve the best! Love you ♥️✨
Awww🥹🥹🥹 Thank you so much for this message, it truly means the world to me!!🤍🤍 I can’t express how much it means to hear that my writing has touched you in such a deep way🥹🥹
(I guess Ethel Cain better pay me some for promoting her songs😋😋)
Sometimes it’s hard to quiet the doubts and keep pushing forward, but messages like yours remind me why I pour my heart into these stories.
Thank you so so much for the love, for supporting me, and for believing in what I create. You have no idea how much that lifts me up.
Love you too, You’re amazing. Thank you once again from the bottom of my heart, my love. 🥹🤍
Don’t fucking told me i’m a shit of a person when you are “romanticizing” raped. That’s fucking sick. Do you have any idea what the word “raped” mean? I make a story containing that word too and it’s fucking worst to write it, oh by the way it’s not fucking AI, cus i know HOW IT FELT.
Rape it’s not something you can fantasize about, lots of girls and boys unfortunately felt it, it will be forever mark on your skin, your soul, and your mind for FOREVER. It’s not some fucking kink and things you can fantasize about. It seriously affecting your mental and physical state.
Now you are telling me i’m a shit person just because I “use chat gpt” to wrote my story???
I’m sorry to bring this up, but your words accusing me about things i didn’t do, and basically telling me “i’m a shit person” for it is just fucking offensive as fuck.
To be clear, i use the help of chat GPT for vocabulary sometimes and ideas, like the ideas what to do next, but I DID NOT WRITE MY STORY WITH ANY KIND OF AI, not even a whole fucking story written by the fucking robot are you kidding me???😭😭😭 THE ROBOT CAN’T REMEMBER SHIT! and I don’t know how to use it properly, if i know it will be fucking easier, i won’t have this fucking writer’s block, but I DID NOT USE IT. It’s fucking offensive and funny as fuckkkk, i’m an Englit student for Christ’s sake, that’s offensive for my degree too if i wrote my story with AI😭
Hi! I’m so sorry, I have a new job now and very busy and also I’m having writer’s block😭 I have drafts for Religion series but keep changing it because I’m still confused. But I promise I will update the story soon as possible, Thank you soo much for waiting🥹🤍
tell me why your entire fucking fanfic is AI generated? have some decency and stop fucking lying to people. how shit of a person do you have to be to take credit for completely chat-gpted work? this is why real writers hate AI.
I didn’t use fucking chat gpt to wrote my fucking story from my own fucking mind. Just because a detector detected my writing an AI, yes i use chat GPT for ideas only, IDEAS, not the writing, and only if i got writer’s block, i ask for better vocabulary to help me with words because English is not my first language still i need help with it and for learning too, I DIDN’T USE AI TO WRITE MY OWN STORY. You can say and assume anything you like, just because the writing is “weird”, i use different vocabulary, i also take reference from my professors too because i’m an englit student. So you are saying me i’m a fucking liar and accused me using an AI for my fucking story IS FUCKING OFFENSIVE.
Think before you wrote something to people, just because you put AI detector of my writing and accusing me using AI.
"Fata viam invenient | The fates will find a way."
summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.
Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.
warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story
𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡
❝They call you Rome’s lion, her indomitable shield,
yet to me, you are the flicker of warmth
in a palace carved from ice.
Your hands are calloused from war,
but they cradle my soul with the tenderness of spring rain.
Your voice commands legions,
yet it whispers my name like a prayer,
as though the gods themselves might hear
and envy us our stolen moments.
If love were not a sin,
I would adorn you with laurel not for conquest,
but for the triumph of your heart over mine.
Yet here we linger, caught in the webs of empire,
where every glance is a rebellion,
and every touch a battle lost.
Ad te anhelo, quasi ad caelum ipsam,
(I long for you as though for the heavens themselves,)
but our stars burn too brightly,
and even the gods avert their eyes.
So I am to love you
as Rome loves her champions—
for eternally.❞
thꫀ ρᥣᥲᥡᥣเ᥉t! (on spotify) 🏛️
in love with marcus acacius
ꪑᥲ᥉tꫀɾᥣเ᥉t!🌞
Chapter I: "in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."
summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.
Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.
warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Loss of virginity, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story
Chapter I
masterlist!
next | chapter II
The palace is alive with preparation, a beast of marble and gold that never rests. Its veins are the labyrinthine halls, pulsing with servants like you, carrying trays of delicacies, wreaths of flowers, and jugs of wine.
Its heart beats to the rhythm of whispered orders, clinking metal, and the distant echo of the marketplace beyond its gates. Tonight, the beast awakens for another feast.
You adjust the folds of your simple tunic, careful not to brush against the elaborate tapestries that line the walls. Each thread tells a story of conquest, glory, and power—legends you’ve only heard murmured by those old enough to remember.
You are not part of those tales, nor their lineage. You are a servant, a shadow cast by the towering figures who walk these halls.
The kitchen is a tempest. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet figs. Claudia, the head cook, barks orders, her voice slicing through the chaos like the edge of a Roman gladius.
You pass her with a nod, your arms laden with trays of fruit—gleaming apples, plump grapes, the kind of bounty the common people outside these walls could only dream of.
Livia catches your eye from across the room. Her presence is a steady anchor in the storm, her face worn but kind.
“Have you checked the wine?” she asks, her tone soft but urgent.
You nod. “It’s ready, Mother,” you reply, the word slipping out as naturally as breath.
She is not your mother—you know this much—but she is all you have.
The story of how you came to be here is one you’ve heard countless times: a baby abandoned at the servants' chamber door, cradled in a basket of woven reeds, with nothing to mark your origin save for a scrap of fine cloth that no one in your station would dare to own.
Livia found you there, swaddled in whispers of mystery, and against all odds, she chose to keep you.
Raised among the laboring hands of the palace, you were given no privilege beyond survival and no legacy but that of work.
The great marble halls and gilded frescoes became your entire world, a place as eternal and unmoving as the gods themselves—or so it seemed.
The servants’ quarters where you lived were nestled in the hidden bowels of the palace, far from the glittering feasts and marble statues.
You learned to scrub floors and pour wine long before you understood the language of wealth and power that filled these walls.
Your life had been carved out in the shadows, molded by the soft voices and calloused hands of those who raised you.
Today, like every other, begins in service to Rome's ever-churning hunger for spectacle.
The air hums with anticipation, thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, a stark contrast to the stench of poverty that lingers just beyond the palace gates.
“Are the platters for the atrium ready?” Livia’s voice cuts through your thoughts.
“They are,” you reply, glancing at the polished silver laden with grapes and apples, their skins shining like jewels under the torchlight.
“Good.” Livia’s sharp eyes soften, though her expression remains tense. “Take the fruit out yourself. And stay close to the kitchen. Today will bring trouble, I feel it.”
You nod, understanding the weight of her instincts. Years of serving in the palace have taught her to sense the storm before it strikes.
As you lift the platters, Claudia, calls over her daughter, Alexandra.
“Go with her,” Claudia orders, waving a ladle for emphasis.
Alexandra groans dramatically but obeys, rolling her eyes as she grabs one of the platters.
“She can’t let me rest for a moment,” she mutters, her tone more amused than annoyed.
You chuckle softly. Alexandra has always been like this—bold where you are cautious, quick to speak where you stay silent.
She is your only true companion here, older by four years and infinitely more daring.
As you and Alexandra arrange the fruits on a grand table in the atrium, she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Princess will be here tonight.”
You nod absently, focused on ensuring the grapes cascade just so. “Of course, she will. She is the Princess after all.”
“No, I mean, I haven’t seen her in years,” Alexandra continues, ignoring your tone. “Not since I was a kid. That was ten years ago. You know she moved out of the palace after marrying the general.”
You don’t reply immediately, your hands steady as you arrange the fruit. Alexandra has always loved to gossip, but you prefer to keep your thoughts unspoken.
“Can you believe it’s been ten years, and she hasn’t had a child? Not one with him,” Alexandra muses.
“Maybe it’s their choice,” you say quietly. “It’s not our place to wonder.”
Alexandra scoffs lightly. “I’m just saying, after her son—what was his name? Lucius?—after he was taken and killed by her brother, Commodus…” She trails off, her voice tinged with something between pity and fascination.
You remember Lucius vaguely, a boy with a quiet demeanor and a sad smile.
You were too young then to understand the weight of his loss, but the servants whispered of curses and tragedies surrounding the imperial family.
“It’s not good to talk about the great emperors like that,” you murmur, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.
Before Alexandra can reply, the sound of heavy boots echoes through the atrium.
The guards step forward, their polished armor glinting in the firelight. “Make way for their majesties,” one announces, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the guests.
You and Alexandra immediately bow your heads, the platters forgotten as the twin emperors enter the room.
Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla are a study in contrasts.
Geta, an imposing figure, commands the space with a cold and calculating gaze. His every step seems deliberate, as if the weight of the empire rests on his shoulders alone.
Caracalla, by contrast, walks with an erratic energy, his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. Dondus, the creature’s name, chatters and hisses, a mirror of its master’s unpredictable moods.
You feel the weight of their gazes as they sweep the room. Geta’s lips curl into a smile—or is it a smirk?—as his eyes linger on Alexandra.
There have been whispers, rumors of an affair, though Alexandra denies them with a laugh.
Caracalla’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression softens. Unlike his brother, he has always been strange but oddly kind to you.
When you were a child, he would find you in the halls, offering you small trinkets or asking you to keep him company.
“Your Majesties,” Alexandra says again, her voice like honeyed wine, sweet but strong.
She curtsies with practiced ease, her eyes cast downward, yet her boldness hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.
You follow her lead, bowing deeply, but your heart pounds in your chest like the war drums of a distant legion. In the presence of the emperors, the room feels smaller, the air heavier.
To serve Rome, you think, is to breathe in the will of its rulers, no matter how suffocating.
Geta's gaze lingers on Alexandra, traveling from her head to her feet, as though she were a statue he might commission or a possession he already owns.
His smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgence that unsettles you.
“Alexandra,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished bronze. “Why do I find the table half-dressed? Are my guests to dine on the promise of fruit alone?”
You glance at the platters, perfectly arranged but not yet fully adorned with the remaining dishes. Your pulse quickens; you know the punishment for displeasing the emperors can be swift, unpredictable.
But Alexandra, bold as always, doesn’t flinch.
“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she says, her tone measured yet edged with defiance. “The final trays are being brought out as we speak. The delay was unforeseen.”
Geta arches a brow, his smirk turning sharper, more dangerous. “Unforeseen,” he repeats, as though savoring the word.
“I wonder, Alexandra, if you’ve grown too accustomed to... distractions.”
You know the meaning behind his words. Everyone does.
The whispered rumors of their affair swirl through the palace like incense smoke, clinging to every corner.
Her mother Claudia knows, though she turns a blind eye, perhaps thinking it wiser not to provoke the wrath of an emperor.
Beside him, Caracalla shifts, uninterested in the exchange. His pet monkey, Dondus, chitters softly on his shoulder, its small, beady eyes scanning the room.
Caracalla’s gaze falls on you briefly, but it is not unkind. He has always been more erratic than cruel with you, there is a peculiar understanding in his glances—a shared knowledge of solitude.
“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” you say suddenly, your voice trembling like a bird caught in a net. The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the weight of the room shifts.
Geta’s eyes snap to you, sharp as a blade. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake.
But then he laughs—a low, indulgent sound that sends shivers down your spine.
“Ah,” he says, leaning slightly toward you. “The little dove finds her voice. How curious.”
You stiffen under his gaze, your knees threatening to buckle. It feels as though he is peeling back your very skin, seeking something hidden beneath.
“You’re the youngest servant here, aren’t you?” Geta muses, his tone light but with an edge that cuts.
“A curious creature, so quiet and unassuming. And yet…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing, as if piecing together a puzzle.
The weight of unspoken rumors presses against your chest.
The whispers about your lineage, the murmurs that you are more than a servant—that you are the illegitimate daughter of Commodus himself, a shadow of Rome’s bloody past.
You’ve heard them before, though never directly. Livia, your steadfast mother in all but blood, dismisses them as lies, the gossip of bored tongues.
But in moments like this, when Geta’s piercing gaze locks onto yours, it feels as though the marble walls around you whisper secrets only they can hold.
Secrets of your origin, of what blood may or may not flow through your veins, encased in the silent austerity of Rome’s cold embrace. You feel the weight of it, a shroud both invisible and suffocating.
Geta doesn’t believe the rumors entirely, but he cannot ignore them either. To him, you are a thorn he cannot pluck without proof.
If the whispers are true, if you are indeed the hidden scion of Commodus and the only living grandchild of Marcus Aurelius, you would be a danger to his rule.
Rome, after all, has loved its Aurelius lineage fiercely.
The plebeians would rally to your name like vines twisting toward sunlight.
Still, no woman has ever ruled Rome.
The Senate, the soldiers, and the gods themselves would balk at such a notion. But Geta knows that power is not always rooted in precedent—it is rooted in the hearts of the people.
And the people would love a descendant of Marcus Aurelius far more than they could ever love him.
“You wear the palace well,” Geta says finally, his tone dripping with mockery. “A little too well, perhaps.”
You feel the heat rise to your cheeks but keep your gaze respectfully lowered. His words are like serpents coiling around you, their venom lying just beneath the surface.
Caracalla hums softly, breaking the tension. He strokes Dondus, the little monkey perched on his shoulder, as though soothing himself rather than the animal.
“Leave her, brother,” he mutters, his tone flat but carrying weight. “You scare the child.”
Geta casts his twin a glance, his smirk briefly faltering. With that, he straightens, clapping his hands once in finality. “Finish the table,” he commands, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the room.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” you and Alexandra reply in unison, bowing deeply as the emperors turn and walk away.
Their robes ripple like molten gold, catching the light as though the gods themselves had woven the fabric.
The moment they are gone, you exhale shakily, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipping from your lips.
The grandeur of the palace, so often a thing of wonder, now feels oppressive—a prison of marble and ambition.
Alexandra nudges you gently, her smile faint but reassuring. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, though the tightness in her voice betrays her unease.
You nod and return to your work, the routine motions of arranging platters grounding you once more. But the unease lingers, like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.
Later, after the feast preparations are complete, you retreat to the servants’ quarters. The hallways grow quieter as the palace begins to prepare for the night’s debauchery.
Your mother, Livia, finds you there, her expression tight with concern.
“Are you all right?” You nod quickly, not wanting to worry her further.
Livia’s sharp eyes search yours for a moment before she exhales heavily. “Stay away from them tonight,” she warns. “There will be soldiers, senators, politicians—men who think they own the world. And women and men from the brothels to entertain them. It will not be a place for a child like you.”
“I understand,” you say softly, though the thought of the gathering makes your skin prickle.
"Go to your chamber and stay there.” You nod, obedient as always, and Livia cups your face briefly before bustling away.
But as you walk toward your chamber, the stillness of the afternoon draws you elsewhere.
***
The sun bathes the palace gardens in a golden light, soft and warm, like an embrace from the gods themselves.
The sky is a flawless stretch of azure, and the air carries the faintest scent of blooming jasmine.
Unable to resist, you veer toward the gardens, seeking solace in their quiet beauty.
You make your way to the small pond at the edge of the grounds, where the world feels simpler, untouched by the weight of marble columns and imperial decrees.
This is your sanctuary, a place you’ve tended with your own hands.
The hedges are trimmed neatly, the flowers arranged in bursts of vibrant color—crimson roses, golden marigolds, and pale violets that seem to glow in the sunlight.
The pond reflects the sky like polished glass, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.
You settle onto the cool stone bench nearby, pulling out a small parchment and charcoal.
Writing has always been your escape, a way to make sense of the labyrinth that is your mind.
The words flow from you like water from a spring, each line capturing fragments of your thoughts and fears.
To live in the shadow of gods is to forget the warmth of the sun.
You stare at the words you’ve written, sentences about Rome and its people, the empire’s endless hunger that devours the poor while the rulers gorge themselves on the spoils.
It isn’t rebellion that drives you—at least, not yet—but a quiet, gnawing sense of wrongness.
You have lived your entire life within the confines of this palace, its gilded walls both a sanctuary and a prison.
Outside, beyond the Forum and its grand marble temples, the streets of Rome teem with despair. You’ve seen it, fleeting glimpses on the rare occasions you ventured beyond the palace gates.
Children with hollow eyes and grime-streaked faces.
Men broken by war or taxation, their shoulders bowed under invisible yokes.
Women clutching bundles of rags that you realized, with a sick lurch, were infants too still to be alive.
These thoughts weigh heavily on you as you sit by the pond, the garden’s beauty unable to shield you from the world’s harsh truths.
You lower your quill, pressing trembling fingers to your lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you sharply from your thoughts.
You stiffen, the air in your lungs turning to stone. It isn’t one of the servants; their steps are lighter, quicker.
This tread is deliberate, measured, carrying a weight of authority. When you glance up, your breath catches.
The man before you is not adorned with the opulence of the Senate nor the ostentatious silk of the emperors.
You know who he is. How could you not?
General Marcus Acacius.
Rome’s shield and sword, the hero of distant campaigns whose name is whispered with both reverence and fear.
You have never seen him in the flesh, for he seldom resides in the palace, choosing instead to live with Princess Lucilla far from its labyrinth of intrigue.
But his likeness is everywhere: etched in marble statues, painted in frescoes, immortalized as Rome’s protector.
Yet, here he stands, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if the gods themselves have sent him.
The crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders glints faintly in the golden light, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns that seem to tell the story of the empire’s conquests.
His tunic, simple yet stately, is cinched with a polished belt, a gleaming buckle bearing the proud insignia of the wolf of Rome.
Unlike the ornamental decadence of the Senate or the twin emperors, his attire speaks of purpose and practicality—beauty tempered by utility.
And his face—by Jupiter, his beautiful face.
It is a map of victories and sacrifices, weathered yet noble. The lines carved by years of sun and battle only enhance the sharpness of his features, as if the gods had personally molded him for their own designs.
His hair, dark and streaked with silver like the gleam of moonlight on a blade, curls faintly at his temples.
His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth set in the hard line of a man who has spoken a thousand commands and swallowed a thousand regrets.
But it is his eyes that strike you most: deep, piercing, soulful-brown eyes.
They are the eyes of a man who has seen the best and worst of humanity and bears the weight of both.
Your breath catches as his gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sight of a young servant clutching a parchment like a shield.
He regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze, his eyes like iron tempered in fire—unyielding yet reflective.
His presence is commanding, a gravity that draws everything into its orbit. You are struck by how different he is from the emperors.
Where Geta and Caracalla exude indulgence and cruelty, Acacius carries himself with the disciplined grace of a man who has known the weight of true responsibility.
“Not many choose the gardens for their thoughts,” he says, his voice deep, steady, and tinged with curiosity.
It is a soldier’s voice, devoid of the honeyed pretense of courtiers.
You scramble to your feet, clutching your parchment to your chest. “General,” you manage, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.
He raises a hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout. “At ease,” he says, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. “You are Livia's daughter?"
His question hangs in the air like the distant clang of a bell. You nodded, your name feels small in your mouth when you finally say it, barely audible against the rustling of the garden’s leaves.
Acacius nods, as though filing the information away. His eyes flick to the parchment in your hands. “A poet?”
You hesitate, “I... I write, sometimes. Thoughts.”
He steps closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely grounding. He does not reach for the parchment, but his gaze lingers on it as though he could read its contents by sheer will alone.
“Thoughts on Rome, perhaps?” he asks.
His tone is even, but there is an edge to it, a subtle weight that suggests he already knows the answer.
Your throat tightens. To speak of the empire’s flaws to a general of its armies feels like standing on the edge of a blade.
Yet something in his bearing—a quiet patience, a restrained curiosity—compels you to answer honestly.
“Yes,” you admit softly. “About Rome. And its people.”
Acacius’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his face. He looks away, toward the pond, his gaze distant now, as if seeing not the still water but something far beyond it.
“The people,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The heart of Rome. And yet, the heart is always the first to be sacrificed.”
The words are spoken quietly, but they carry the weight of experience, of battles fought not just with swords but with conscience.
You watch him, your earlier fear now replaced by a cautious curiosity.
"Do you... believe that?" you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling like a fledgling bird daring its first flight.
Marcus halts, his crimson cloak swaying like the banner of a legion stilled in the wind.
He turns to you, his eyes—sharp as a polished gladius—softening for the briefest moment, as if your question has reached a part of him long buried under layers of duty and steel.
“Belief,” he begins, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who has lived lifetimes in service to an empire, “is a luxury in the life of a soldier. I deal in action, not faith. But I have seen enough to know that Rome’s strength lies not in its emperors, but in its people. And we are failing them.”
The honesty in his words strikes you like the tolling of a great bronze bell, reverberating through the quiet garden and deep into your chest.
It is not what you expected from a man like him—a hero to some, a sword-arm to the empire—but here he stands, speaking not as a general but as a man, his voice laced with something unguarded. Regret, perhaps. Or hope—fragile and faint, but alive nonetheless.
“Do you believe in Rome, little one?” His question falls like a stone into still waters, and you startle, unprepared to have the conversation turned toward you.
“I—” Your words falter, and you look down at your hands, clutching the parchment that now feels like an accusation.
But then, something inside you stirs—something that refuses to shrink back beneath the weight of his gaze.
You lift your eyes to meet his, the courage in your chest kindled like a flame drawn from embers.
“I believe in what Rome could be,” you reply, your voice steadier now.
“I believe in the Rome that lives in the hearts of its people—the ones who work its fields, who build its roads, who kneel at its altars not out of fear, but out of love. That is the Rome worth fighting for. But the Rome I see now…” Your throat tightens, but you press on.
“...has forgotten its people. It worships marble statues and golden coins while the streets crumble and the people starve. How can an empire endure when its foundation is so neglected?”
Your words spill forth, unchecked and unmeasured, and it is only when you see the faintest flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or surprise—that you remember who stands before you.
The weight of your boldness sinks in like a gladiator realizing they’ve overstepped in the arena.
“Forgive me, General,” you murmur, lowering your gaze. “I forgot myself.”
But Marcus shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Do not apologize,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less commanding.
“You are young, but your words carry the wisdom of one who has not yet been corrupted by power. Few speak with such clarity, and fewer still with such courage.”
His gaze lingers on you, searching, and you feel it like the sun breaking through storm clouds.
“You remind me,” he says, his voice quieter, almost reverent, “of someone. He believed, as you do, in the strength of Rome’s people. He would sit in gardens much like this one, speaking of justice and duty, and wonder aloud whether the empire could ever live up to its ideals.”
Your heart quickens, the weight of his words settling over you like the cloak of a goddess.
The way Marcus looks at you—as though he sees not the servant, but the soul beneath—makes you feel for a fleeting moment.
“I am no philosopher,” you say softly, your fingers tightening on the parchment. “But it is hard to remain silent when I see so much suffering.”
“A Roman citizen has every right to speak of their empire’s failings,” he says, stepping closer now.
“Do not mistake me for a politician, child. I am a soldier. My loyalty is to Rome—not to the men who rule it."
You nod, the words settling over you like a cloak woven of both gravity and reassurance.
The air between you feels charged, alive with the kind of understanding that is rarely spoken but deeply felt.
You watch him, his form cast in the golden hues of the setting sun, the crimson of his cloak vivid against the muted greens of the garden.
There is something about him that draws you—not merely his reputation, not the legends whispered in the palace halls of his valor and victories, but him.
The man behind the titles and statues.
You swallow, your heart a restless bird in your chest. You should not linger, not with him, not now.
And yet, you find yourself unable to walk away.
Words rise to your lips, hesitant at first, but then they spill forth, tentative and careful, like a child offering a wildflower to a god.
“Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you be inside?” you say, your voice trembling under the weight of its boldness. “The palace is bustling with your celebration—wishing you fortune for your campaign, for Rome’s glory.”
He turns his gaze to you, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rome’s glory,” he repeats, as though tasting the phrase on his tongue, finding it bitter.
He lets out a soft chuckle, low and warm, a sound that feels oddly out of place amidst the solemn grandeur of the garden. “Let them feast. Let them toast. I’ve no appetite for gilded words tonight.”
You blink, surprised by his candor. He is not what you imagined—not the marble statue immortalized in the Forum or the hardened general whose name echoes in the chants of soldiers. He is… more human than that.
“I’m waiting for my wife,” he adds, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to linger on you as if measuring your reaction.
Princess Lucilla.
The name hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of legend. Rome’s Princess. The only daughter of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. You’ve never met her, though her shadow looms large over your life.
“She was delayed,” he continues, glancing toward the palace, though his stance is relaxed, unhurried.
Princess Lucilla, her legend precedes her, a name spoken with reverence, and sometimes, in hushed tones, with fear.
Your mother, Livia, has served her since she was but a girl.
Livia, who moves through the world with a quiet dignity, has always spoken of the princess with unwavering loyalty. “She carries Rome on her shoulders,” your mother would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “The weight of a crown rests on her brow, even though it does not sit there.”
Your thoughts drift, but his voice pulls you back to the present.
“Your mother,” Marcus says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “she’s a loyal servant to our household, isn’t she?”
You nod, feeling a strange warmth rise to your cheeks. “She is, my lord. My mother adores the princess. She always speaks highly of her.”
At this, Marcus smiles faintly. His expression, though guarded, carries a warmth that feels rare, as if he’s allowing himself a brief reprieve from his usual stoicism.
“Livia is wise, then. Lucilla is… more than most know. Rome sees her as Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, but to me—” He pauses, his voice lowering to something almost reverent.
“She is a woman of strength, far greater than any man I’ve known. Her loyalty to Rome and its people… it humbles me.”
For a fleeting moment, his mask of a hardened general slips, and you glimpse something deeper.
A man bound not just by duty but by love.
His words hang in the air, gilded with affection, and you feel a pang of longing, though for what, you cannot say.
“I’ve never met her,” you admit, your voice quieter now.
He turns to you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Lucilla?”
You nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. “I’ve only heard stories. My mother always told me about her strength, her grace. But we’ve never crossed paths.”
Marcus regards you for a long moment, as if seeing something in you he had not noticed before. “She would like you,” he says at last, his voice steady, though something lingers in his tone, a note of intrigue.
“Are you coming to the feast tonight?” he asks, the question catching you off guard.
You hesitate, glancing toward the palace where the distant hum of celebration filters through the evening air. “Servants are not permitted to attend such events, my lord,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am only a servant after all,"
His brows furrow slightly, as if the answer displeases him. “Rome is built on the backs of those it calls servants. Do not diminish yourself.”
You blink, unsure of how to respond. There’s a weight in his words, one that feels both heavy and freeing.
Before he can say more, hurried footsteps echo through the garden. You turn, and there stands Alexandra, one of the palace attendants, her expression tight with worry.
“My lord,” she says, bowing her head quickly as her wide eyes catch sight of Marcus.
The respect is immediate, almost reflexive. General Acacius commands not just authority but admiration.
Men respect him, but women… they speak of him in hushed tones, a figure both distant and impossibly magnetic.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” Alexandra continues, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. “Your mother is looking for you,"
Marcus looks at you, his expression softening. He steps aside, the movement graceful despite his formidable frame, as though making room for your escape.
"Tell Livia my apologies for keeping her daughter here," he says, his voice low yet deliberate, as though each word is a promise carved in stone.
His gaze lingers on you, longer than it should, and it feels as though he is reading something beyond the surface—a map of your heart, perhaps, etched in the lines of your face.
For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the garden bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the faint murmur of the distant feast, and the weight of his eyes, heavy yet strangely gentle.
There is something about you, his expression seems to say—something unspoken but undeniable.
You feel it too, a spark that flickers to life beneath the layers of duty, expectation, and fear.
“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” he says, the words more a statement than an invitation, leaving little room for protest.
There is a finality to his tone, yet also a quiet insistence that stirs something within you.
Before you can respond, he dips his head ever so slightly—a gesture of respect, or perhaps acknowledgment—before turning and striding away, his crimson cloak flowing like a banner in his wake.
You bow reflexively, watching him disappear into the shadowed corridors of the palace, his figure swallowed by the grandeur of Rome itself.
Yet even as he leaves, his presence lingers, an echo in the air, a weight in your chest.
As soon as the sound of his footsteps fades, Alexandra is at your side, her face alight with barely contained awe.
“Was that… the general?” she whispers, her voice tinged with something between disbelief and reverence.
“Yes,” you reply, though your own voice feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else. Your thoughts are still tethered to the garden, to the quiet intensity of his gaze.
“By the gods,” she breathes, clutching your arm as though you might disappear. “He’s… he’s even more handsome up close.”
You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Ale,” you chide gently, though there’s no malice in your words.
“I’ve heard so much about him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“About his loyalty to Maximus Decimus Meridius—the late general—and how he served under him during the great campaigns. They say he adored the princess even then. Some even whisper that his loyalty to Maximus was why he stayed so close to her after his death, marrying her to protect her.”
You glance at her, your brow furrowing slightly. “You know far too much for someone who spends their days in the laundry.”
She grins, unrepentant. “The laundry is where all the palace’s secrets come to dry.”
You shake your head, though her words gnaw at the edges of your mind.
You’ve heard the stories too, in bits and pieces from the older servants: tales of Lucilla’s love affair with Maximus, and Marcus’s steadfast devotion not only to his commander but to the empire itself.
A marriage born of loyalty, they say, not love. And yet, there’s something in the way Marcus spoke of Lucilla earlier that makes you wonder.
As Alexandra chatters on, her words a tide of gossip and speculation, your thoughts drift back to Marcus.
To the way he stood in the garden, his form framed by the soft glow of the setting sun. To the depth in his eyes, like wells carved by the gods themselves—deep enough to drown in, and yet you couldn’t look away.
You feel a strange restlessness in your chest, a stirring you can’t quite name. It isn’t admiration, nor fear, but something more complicated. Something heavier.
Marcus is unlike anyone you’ve ever known—unlike the indulgent senators with their honeyed words, unlike the cruel twin emperors whose laughter carries the sting of a whip.
He is a man of iron and fire, tempered by years of battle, yet beneath that hardened exterior lies something softer. Something… human.
And perhaps that’s what unsettles you most.
You’ve spent your life surrounded by women: your mother, Livia, with her quiet strength and unshakable loyalty; the other servants, who taught you to navigate the palace’s labyrinthine halls.
Men were distant figures, their power felt but never seen up close. Fathers, you’ve only heard about in stories—abstract concepts, not flesh and blood.
But Marcus is no abstraction.
He is real, tangible, a presence that feels larger than life yet undeniably mortal.
To see him, to feel him, is to glimpse a side of the world you’ve never known—a world shaped not by whispered orders or silent sacrifices, but by action, by conviction, by the weight of decisions made on the edge of a blade.
You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they cling to you like the scent of blooming jasmine in the garden. “It’s nothing,” you tell yourself, though your heart betrays you with its restless rhythm.
“Nothing at all,” you murmur, though even the words feel like a lie.
