Chapter Text
Fate is a thing decided by the Gods.
But the Gods, they weren't very present here.
Penelope Featherington had always expected to have a simple life. Gods, she prayed for it when she was younger. To be like those simple girls, to be married off to a solider. While those men were off fighting, her life would be filled with children, most likely. Away from this farm.
But that farm is long gone.
Now, she wishes for that simple life as she is on her knees. A metal collar wrapped around her neck, her hands resting on her knees as they are chained together. She curses the Gods, that they would bestow such a cruel fate upon her. To sell her like a slave for any man to pay gold to the Emperor. Is she to be a wife? Is she to become a slave? To be nothing more than a common whore?
As the turns her head, the slight rattle of the chain echoes in the room. The other girls, they were not as clean as her. They had dirt covering their clothes, their dresses were nothing more than cheap cloth. The one closest to her had her sleeves torn, as well as half of her gown.
The guards—she reminds herself—they are not always as gentle as they should be. She had only heard rumors, from those who had visited from the city.
Her eyes stayed on the floor as the footsteps grew louder across the marble. Portions of it had a pattern, swirls almost. Enough to keep her distracted from what is transpiring in front of her. A small voice had began to talk, something about a selection.
Listing off traits as if they weren’t in the area. Two of the girls were from a fishing village. They were smaller, younger—possibly. The girl next to her, her mother was a servant of the Emperor's wife. That only left… her.
The unfortunate farmer's daughter.
She had gotten used to it. Tuning the voices of higher ranking officials out. It had all mostly been gibberish—things that she could not understand. Or terms she had not quite grasped from her time when she did listen. But for the first time since her travels to the empire, she hears her…her name.
"Her name is Penelope?" The man says louder.
It is time, she supposes. To finally look up and see who her buyer will be. Her eyes go up, eyeing him in his armor. His face—those blue eyes, his perfectly shaped jaw. Oh, she's seen him before, it had been long ago.
Once, her father had been summoned to the empire. To discuss a trade—unfortunately, she had been forced to see the fighting in the area. There is no doubt in her mind that she had seen him there. How does a man who was formally a slave get to have his pick from the litter?
"Yes, Tribune," the keeper speaks. "She is the cleanest of them. The daughter of the Featherington family. She has no diseases or illnesses. Her father accepted the pay three days past."
It was not illegal—or morally wrong—to be sold for a debt. Most daughters marry other low born. Live their days in an arranged marriage. But she…she is sitting here with the other women. Being given away as if she does not matter.
"And the others?" The man questions.
"Caesar has been generous," the keeper responds. "The other two girls will serve in your household."
One by one, the guards grab the girls by their chains forcing them up on their feet. Her eyes finally went to him. As she heard the struggles of the girls being taken back to the pens. Her hands sit together on her knees as he walks over to her. Kneeling down onto the floor.
"She is to come to my chambers," he insists, slowly moving her hair from her face. "She does not return to the pens."
"Tribune that is not how—"
"I insist," he interjects. "If she is my gift from Caesar, she is mine to do as I please."
His.
To do as he pleases.
She watches him rise to his feet, he turns to the guards, whispering orders as if he is not quite used to speaking them yet. The sounds of the chain scratch against the floor. That feeling of being stuck to the ground is gone as she can finally move her hands. As she is pulled to her feet—she realizes. This is her fate now, not the farm.
Not marrying some man who will go off to the military.
She is his gift.
𖤓𖤓𖤓
Sleep had come sooner than expected.
The last thing that had been in her mind is the smell of the sea. It had invaded her senses the second those guards dragged her into this room. Ordering her to lay in this bed and dropping those chains onto the floor. Gently reminding her that her new Dominus could use them if she attempts to leave this room without his permission.
As she awoke, that smell of the ocean had once again come back to her. It is nauseating—or maybe it is to her—a girl who has never been this close to the water. The grass of the farms is not as strong as this. The wind does not carry it in with every breeze. She had never been in rooms this big. The ceiling is a vivid red color, with gold in the accents of the wood. With each breeze, the light shines onto the gold. There had been no gold where she came from.
She sits up and scans the room.
It is somehow just as vivid as the colors on the ceiling.
Until her eyes finally…stop. Stop at a figure that is standing at the balcony, it is—it is him. Her heart is racing so fast, so suddenly that she can hear it inside her ears. There is an expectation of this, she is sure. There is an expectation of all women who are "gifted" or "sold." As she shifts in the bed, the man looks over at her.
"The Gods have been kind, you did not perish," he admits. "The guards said you had felt unwell."
It had not been unwell. Or that is not how she would describe how she is feeling. Exhausted—more likely. That sudden urge to sleep until the sun has risen and fallen over and over again.
"No, Dominus," Penelope shakes her head, continuing. "It is difficult to sleep when you are chained. The pens are not a quite place, I must admit."
"Have you the strength to speak?" he questions. "Or do you require more rest?"
"No," she interrupts him. "I—I wish to ask you a question."
"You are free to speak," he responds, taking a drink. "Confusion is to be expected."
"What is your name?"
"My name?" He raises a brow. "You do not know?"
No, she does not. She knows his face, she has heard the stories. About how successful a man had been in the arena, how saving an important figure had earned him citizenship with the Roman Empire. But throughout her travels here, all the whispers, she had never actually learned his name. The only thing she had wanted.
"I have heard the tales," she starts. "The whispers in the pens, but they had never mentioned your name. Or not one that I actually believe."
Clearing his throat, he speaks softly. "It is Colin."
Oh—Colin. She had not expected a name such as his. In her mind, she thought a man of his strength. It would not be such a soft name. There is a chance, a slim one, that he may not be like the others. Especially like those guards.
She watches him lean his head against the stone wall. His eyes going from the city over to her on the bed. But he does not look at her long, his eyes go back to the lights of the city. The sounds of the citizens celebrating throughout. It is her chance? Is it not? To make it well known that she has no plans to—participate. That she will not be reduced to that for him.
"I will not lie with you," Penelope admits, scrunching the blanket closer. "Not willingly."
She did not even want to come to his home. She had only not made a fuss out of fear of those guards in the palace. He does not bat an eye as she looks straight at him. He continues to look out onto the city from the balcony.
"When was the last time you have eaten?" He questions, leaning against the stone. "The guards are not known for their hospitality, I am afraid."
No, they are known for far worse.
"I am not hungry," she lies. "I shall be fine."
It must have been the light hint of sarcasm that has him finally move from the balcony. Over to a plate of food that the servants had brought in a while before. Gently, he picks it up, setting it down on the edge, where she could easily kick it off. Or even better, at him.
"If you do not eat," he mutters, picking up a piece of fruit. "You will not survive the week, I will not have your death on my hands."
"Why?" she asks. "It is not as if it really matters."
"It does," he replies. "I do not know how long they held you down there. You need your strength, you are quite pale."
"I do not need my strength to be your whore," she spits. "I will not give myself more strength so you can force yourself upon me."
He pushes the plate closer to her. "The only thing I will be forcing upon you is this." He responds, pointing at the food. "Now, eat."
The low growling in her stomach is what makes her finally obey. God, she wishes she could resist. Not that she had much strength too. Days of being kept down in the cleaner cells. They had only taken her out to tell her to bathe and dress. She is famished, slowly she begins to take small bites of the food.
As minutes passed, he only watched. Slowly undoing the pieces of his armor. She did not know why, but she had always thought most needed help removing it. His chest place comes off and with it—Oh. It is his bare chest. It is not how she expected it. In her mind, she had thought it would be smooth. His muscles would be defined, he fought in the arena after all.
It is covered in scars.
One long slide from his mid section to around his heart is the deepest. The other ones are much shorter. She is not sure if they are from swords and spears—or if they are whippings from his time as a slave.
"Tonight," he starts as he places his armor down. "Or any night, I will not force myself upon you."
"You will not?" Penelope raises a brow. "Forgive me, if I am not here for your pleasure—what do you need me for?"
"Do you believe a man such as myself would take pleasure in that?" He questions, taking a drink from his goblet.
"You could, yes," she speaks. "I do not know you. You are nothing but a stranger to me."
"I can assure you," he says, standing up. "I do not."
If she is not here for his pleasure—for him to simply do as he pleases. Then gods, what is she here for? If she was a servant, she would not be sleeping in such a beautiful bed.
He continues to strip his armor. Piece by piece falling into a pile. Until he is completely down to his tunic—nothing but one simple piece of cloth. She is more curious about him instead of furious. How? How has this happened?
"Did they not tell you?" He asks, walking back near the balcony. "What you were given to me for?"
No—no, they did not. She had heard chatter from the guards so often as they placed the chains on them. That they would be selected for a purpose. But none had ever told her exactly what they were. Only gave her orders when it had been time to leave.
Penelope shakes her head, taking another bite of food.
"When we do lie together, it would be because you wish to be with me," he assures her. "There will never be anything else."
"Tell me what you wish for me to do," Penelope says, pushing the plate away. "I—I do not understand."
"You are not a slave, you are not bound by chains," he says, grabbing the plate from the bed. "You are able to do as you please."
Whatever she wants? She can leave this room? She is not bound here? There will not be guards ordering her where to go? Or someone running after her the moment she steps away?
"There must be more."
"No," Colin shakes his head, placing the dish in the basin. "You will want for nothing here. That is all that is needed of you."
"There—there must be more to this," Penelope insist. "I must know why."
"You are to be my wife."
She… she is to be his…wife?
