Work Text:
In his dream, Alexander the Great is stern in stone, with a marble sword leading his people to greatness. Blood leaks from his eyes, his hands, his mouth. The common people cup their hands greedily for a drink.
In his dream, he is a vulture, soaring high above the roads that loop around the city. He is thirsty, with his throat bleeding for relief and desperate for food, with his stomach tearing itself in half.
Wings stretched against the azure sky and the golden sun, he sails onwards, far from his home and its long list of sins. The winds bristle against his black wings. Suddenly, the cliff gives way to the sea.
Thirst and hunger stings his entire body. He circles around once, and flies back to the city, and it’s long list of sins. Corpses line the streets. Rats run to and fro, hoping to get a crumb off of the bodies. Children sit next to their parents, crying blood.
He is so thirsty. He is so hungry.
He dives, dives, dives, and the metal tang of blood covers him. The relief he feels is world shattering. He dives his dagger sharp beak into the flesh of the dead, and he feasts and he drinks until he is satisfied.
He wakes up.
;
His father, and his father before him, and his father before him, took these very steps to be crowned Emperor. His great-great-grandfather, Marcus Aurelius the Great, had started the tradition of commanding litter bearers to hoist him onto their shoulders to the Temple of Zeus. And then he fell when one of the boys had collapsed, and his reign was doomed before it had even began.
So now, he walks the streets of the commoners and the whores, and revels in the screaming and cheers of his name.
“Augustus Gaius Marcus Epiphaneia!” — Augustus Gaius Marcus the Shining One!
He wishes this fight had more bloodshed. He wanted to show how he had the entire legion behind him, supporting his reign. Three slits to the throat and everyone had gone running.
At least he had the pleasure of looking his father in the eye when he did it. That makes it all worth it.
The shrieking crowd, the roses and tulips brings hope to his heart. This is his birthright. He knows it. And now the whole of the empire knows it.
The thick smoke of incense, myrrh, he thinks it is, tickles the back of his throat. He’d never liked the pomp and circumstance that goes into ceremonies.
As he climbs higher and higher into the Temple, the cheering and adoring glances grow quiet. Here, he is but a mortal man, to be judged by his Gods.
Walking into the Temple hall, he sees the cow brought to be slaughtered. Its entrails need to be pink and bright, bloody red, with nothing a simple commoner could diffuse.
“People of Rome, hear my words, for we are in the presence of Gods and mere mortal men. O Mighty Zeus, Lord of Justice and of Truth, we offer you this heifer, the best of the crop, to bless this reign of Augustus Gaius Marcus.”
He holds his breath. It’s now or never.
Holding the sickle to its throat, the priest slices down and then up, severing the head completely and cleanly from the body. The heifer’s head falls to the floor and rolls to his feet. Its eyes are unseeing, but still twitching with still running nerves.
The sickle moves to the stomach and in two quick moves, fresh blood pours onto the stone, running off to the sides. The intestines are pink and healthy, with no blemishes to see.
He lets go of his breath. He’s done it. By the Gods, may his reign be long.
The hall quietens. “Glory to the Gods! Augustus Gaius Marcus Epiphaneia! Long live the Emperor!”
He kneels, and the priest gives him the orb and scepter of his father, and his father before him, and his father before him.
“I am the horizon, the rising and setting sun,” he stands tall on both legs now, sun glinting through his hair, hands gripping the scepter and orb tightly. “If I say the night is day, then so be it.”
“Long live the Emperor! Long live the Emperor!”
;
“Come now, brother,” he says, sitting down. A servant comes over to help unpin his hair. “We are in my household. Use my familial name.”
“Of course, Wilbur, but word from Egypt says the Nile has not yet risen, and —“
“Nor should it. Thoth has not nearly started. Indunation does not start for another week. We will worry about it then.” He snaps his fingers at a servant girl by the doors. “Wine for the Emperor and his brother, Technoblade.”
He hands Technoblade a goblet. “To my reign, may it be long and everlasting.”
He raises his goblet in tandem. “Long live the Emperor.” His brother smiles, but it doesn’t meet his eyes.
;
It’s a slow day of listening to petitioners. Truthfully, this is his favorite part of his busy schedule. He gets to show his people that he is a benevolent but strict ruler, and that he will listen to them before imparting rule.
A girl wearing the clothes of a slave comes forward. She’s trembling.
“Emperor Augustus, most benevolent, please hear my words. I do not have long.”
He smiles. “Of course, my dear girl. What is it?”
She looks up and glances towards his brother, Aurelius Constanius. “I believe that your brother has orchestrated the grain shortage. Begging your pardon, I can not read, but I could recognize my lord’s seal anywhere.”
The room bursts in shocked whispers and murmurs. His vision tunnels. He had his own thoughts on the grain that had suddenly stopped flowing. He opened his own royal graineries to the people.
“You lying bitch! I’ll kill you! You dare to believe her, a slave, nothing but a servant, over your own brother, your family?” Aurelius snarls. There’s spittle flying everywhere. He spits at the girl’s feet.
“Silence. Your Emperor is speaking.” The hall quietens. “My girl, are you quite sure of this?”
“I have a letter bearing his seal and his orders, my Emperor.” She reaches into the bag on her back, and hands it to a guard. “I had a former master read it to make sure. I am sorry for this betrayal.”
With furrowed eyebrows, he reads. With each word, he grows angrier and angrier.
He is a vulture. Hungry and thirsty. His brother is a corpse lining the streets. He dives and he eats and he drinks.
“Take him to a holding cell,” he says after a terse silence. “Today’s petitioners shall be moved to tomorrow morning. I am sure you understand. Dismissed.”
;
The palace is silent. Servants are bustling back and forth, light and quick on their feet, carrying towels and water.
In the Emperor’s room, lays his wife on the bed, screaming and crying from the stress of birth. He stands by her side for hours upon hours, murmuring encouragement and giving her water.
Between the last of the contractions, he tells her, “You are the most beautiful person in the world right now. I love you with my whole heart, until the Gods call on me.” She gives him a weak smile.
“You and your pretty words, husband,” she chides. “I love you. Until the Gods call on us.” Her face screws up and she groans.
“Alright, dear, here we go,” the midwife says. “Now, push!”
Ten minutes later, he is sat on the bed next to his sleeping wife. He holds his darling daughter close to his chest.
The baby opens her eyes, and he already knows she will be powerful one day. Her hazel eyes peer at him curiously.
He smiles bigger than he ever had. “Hello, Helen. Welcome to the world. They are very excited to meet you.”
;
When he goes, it is quiet and warm. His family, his sons and daughters and his grandchildren surround his bed. The room smells of the thick incense of myrrh. He’s come to love the smell.
“Father, it is alright,” his oldest tells him. Helen smiles at him. He was right. Wife of the great King Menelaus, she is Queen of Sparta. “We will be alright.”
“My children, my loves,” he takes a deep breath, and the rattle of his lungs can be heard. “I wish we had more time together. I see your mother, even now.”
She’s standing in the doorway, and looks the same way she did when they had gotten married. “She’s gorgeous.”
“You and your pretty words, husband.” She chides once more.
On the exhale, he is holding her hand, and is gone to the land of the Gods, where they have called them both.