This sort of venom, malice towards the tribesman wasn’t anything new. Hell, this was a few steps below the violent outburst that had occurred after he had wiped out three legions in his forests a few decades earlier. It was probably one of his greatest achievements, but that was another story for another time. The problem he faced at the moment was a very angry Roman who had one thing on the mind.
As the fingers tightened around his neck, Odalric moved his head to look up at the angered man. There was no fear, no look of surprise or hate. Honestly, it was one of annoyance–which in hindsight maybe wasn’t the best idea–his lips turned in a slight frown. “I am here, in Rome, acting as your bodyguard while you go gallivanting around your empire. I doubt I had time to leave and start a rebellion and return without you noticing.”
His ‘toys’ were set down on his lap, the tall Germanic wearing traditional roman garb as it seemed his trousers were considered too barbaric for these idiots. “Nothing. You don’t tell my people what to do. I am going to continue enjoying the day, and you should too.” Again, not the best thing to say and with that sort of attitude. They could be the best of friends and yet the worst of enemies.
His nostrils flared at the impudently dismissive response, as if to release the mounting fury that was rising from his chest, heaving against Odalric’s back. It paled in comparison with the raging tornado of wrath and devastation he’d felt decades ago, in the wake of the Teutoburg disaster. Things had changed since, they had found a grudging compromise, after much bloodshed and battle. As long as Germania could be fettered to him, as long as he could have him by his side, then he could tolerate and crush the constant sparks of rebellion that crippled the tenuous confines of his Germanic provinces. He knew, deep down, that their dynamic wouldn’t last, if the steady military efforts he invested in the Rhine were anything to go by. It angered him, really, to think that though he was his prized possession, he never truly conquered him.
Nails dug into flesh and muscle, bruising the alabaster skin to make a mark; that of possession. His eyes, clouded with the colour of old blood, greedily roved down the barbarian’s Adam’s apple to the dip below his collarbone, where he could make out the muscular shape of his chest beneath the cotton tunic. Filth and desire mingled in his rage addled mind as he indulged in visions of that strong chest and back marked by lashings, bites, bruises and blood. He could feel his empirehood engorge with his rushing arousal, pulsing with the desire for violence. He did not question that abhorrent desire he felt for the other, nor the clash of contrasting feelings he would rouse in the deepest recesses of his consciousness, not anymore. For long he’d struggled with the fantasies he would indulge in on occasion, during those rare, lonely nights at the castra. Odalric had all the qualities Romulus coveted in a companion: he was as strong as himself, and as beautiful as a woman. He was quiet, collected, a mountain of a tribesman. And yet he was all he despised: the savagery, the lack of what he believed to be civilisation, education, the blunt honesty, the simplicity, the absence of malicious treachery and degenerate corruption. There was something purely divine about the barbarian, like an untainted spring at the bottom of an ancient glacier. Nothing, no-one could reach him.
And he wanted to pollute him. Mark and disgrace him, make him his toy and his companion. Romulus had no concept of equality, and a skewed one of partnership at best. He couldn’t grasp the concept of relationships without control and dominion on his side. His ideals of freedom only applied to himself, others had to endure the paradox of being free in Rome’s civilised captivity.
“You should know better than talking back at me.” in fact, he’d much prefer it if the other didn’t talk at all; his glacial stare was enough to inflame him. The empire was a force to be reckoned with, a truly terrifying one: and yet Germania alone could hold his gaze in utter defiance. His gaze narrowed, and the furrows in his brow deepened. That look made him him lick his dry lips, scrape his tongue over a sharp tooth. He wanted to sink his teeth into the other’s shoulders, taste the iron in his blood. He held back for a tense moment.
“Enjoy?” he scoffed in Odalric’s ear, voice dropping into a deep growl;
“I guess I can find a way to enjoy the rest of this rotten day in like fashion.” keeping one iron grip around his nape, he furiously tore at his simple tunic with his other hand, ripping it from the side seams in one sweep. He would use him. Use him to sate all of his baser urges. And then, maybe, he would finally be his.