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English
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Part 4 of I Am Half, You Are Half
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Published:
2024-11-26
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1,110
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1/1
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Damage is Done

Summary:

I often think of what you would do, what you would say. Your spirit is with me even when we are apart. It is because we whispered to one another in the womb, you see. I would know your voice anywhere.

Those lips that had touched the shell of his ear in the night would never speak again, Caracalla knew, and yet he would know Geta’s voice anywhere.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

It wasn’t so bad, after the initial shock.

After Caracalla had puked and cried and puked again, and been heaved up bodily from the floor, from clutching his brother’s blood-sodden body.

He had done the right thing. He had done the right thing. Macrinus had said so. “It was to be him or me,” he repeated aloud to himself, “I did the right thing.”

He couldn’t believe he had had the strength to do it. Geta was always the victor in their scuffles. The defender in the schoolroom, and the solid, strong physical presence in bed at night. He had felt an unfamiliar steadiness in his arm as he had hacked at his brother’s neck, drawing all that blood. The strength of the Gods, Macrinus had said. The hand of Mars on yours, Dondus had agreed. A sense of purpose not his own, and so surely divine.

In his confusion in those moments, he had asked Macrinus who had done this. You, Emperor.

He remembered it now. And seeing his brother’s head, he could not deny it. He had been so very sick, every particle within him heaving at the loss.

But it wasn’t so bad now. Geta’s voice was with him again.

 

Even before...all this, he had heard Geta’s guiding voice many a time in his ear even when his brother wasn’t present. Geta had whispered the same to him one night as they drowsed in the dark, when they were younger and more sentimental.

I often think of what you would do, what you would say. Your spirit is with me even when we are apart. It is because we whispered to one another in the womb, you see. I would know your voice anywhere.

Those lips that had touched the shell of his ear in the night would never speak again, Caracalla knew, and yet he would know Geta’s voice anywhere.

 

Alone in his chamber in his blood-stained robes – he hadn’t let the servants touch him – he trembled all over. His bed smelled like copper and salt. He had wanted to take the head but Macrinus had said –

Do you trust Macrinus? Geta’s voice surfaced in his mind like bubbles in a sacred well.

“Why shouldn’t I? You do- did.”

Who held your arm steady?

“Mars. Apollo.”

The voice fell silent.

“I won’t apologise. I did the right thing. He’s going to show the crowd your head, and then they’ll stop.”

Don’t make him your first council.

That felt right to Caracalla. He wanted to deny Macrinus something that he wanted.

“Who, then?”

Dondus.

Caracalla smiled in his cave of soiled blankets. Of course. Who else could he trust now that -

Now that he was alone. Macrinus, so sure of himself, so strutting and confident, should be denied something that he wanted, now that Caracalla was denied the only thing he wanted, which was Geta’s arm around him, and the comforting smothering knowledge that Geta would never hurt him.

He stuck an arm out of his nest and called softly to Dondus, who crept under the blankets to console his shivering master.

 

A night passed, full of terrors, till Caracalla was awoken by a sweet whisper in his ear.

Wake up. Wake up, my love.

He smiled as he woke, but it was Dondus’ little chittering mouth that lipped his earlobe, hungry for breakfast.

You have responsibilities now. Geta’s voice wasn’t tender any more, it was cold and disapproving.

“You don’t think I can do it,” muttered Caracalla to the air, “You think me unfit.”

The real Geta would have held his tongue, but his look would have said it without words. The Geta of the air simply said, a little sadly: Yes.

He allowed himself to be washed and escorted to the senate. He didn’t tell Dondus of the honour he was about to bestow – he thought it would be a delightful surprise.

 

It all came off beautifully, of course. He really didn’t see how Geta could have done it any better. And it felt good, really good, to have it all to himself finally.

He wondered where the head was. Geta’s body, he knew, had been taken away to be ritually purified and placed in the tomb that awaiting them both. But Macrinus had taken the head.

He really did feel that it was his right to demand it back, by blood and by rule, but he was a little afraid to ask.

Afraid of me, or afraid of Macrinus? Geta’s voice in his ear was teasing, soft like a cat’s paw but with the knowledge of the claws within. Caracalla shrugged one shoulder, unaware of how childlike he looked.

 

Games, feasting and mass-executions. The first of those to commence today. He took Geta’s seat in the box. No, he took his own seat. It was Geta who had taken it from him in the first place. His head ached. Dondus took Caracalla’s old place, and he found that comforting, to have a trusted friend and ally in the box with him.

He really hadn’t wanted to kill Lucilla. He couldn’t even remember what she was supposed to have done. He had always liked her. She was kind and she was good fun, even if they could never tempt her to stray from her husband. He found he couldn’t remember her husband’s face. How had he died again? In the wars?

He cheered up again at the thought of the wars. All under his command now.

Persia. India. Like ice trickling down his spine.

He winced. Shut up, Geta. It had nothing to do with him now. There had been a war and Geta had lost it.

As things heated up in the arena, Caracalla’s anxieties slipped away. Men were pouring out onto the sand. Steel flashed and everyone was shouting, it was glorious.

 

But then there was more and more shouting. The praetorian guard were there, and there were men on horses, the yelling rising to a fever pitch. Dondus was afraid, and Caracalla didn't like it. He huddled further into his chair, unable to stop himself from crying, tears running down his face, his nose streaming. Where was Geta, oh, why wouldn't Geta stop this?

Suddenly he felt a hand gripping the top of his head, and he ceased his wailing. Geta was there, and speaking into his ear again, but this time his voice was like cold steel, and it stung and burned him to hear it.

I'm sorry, my brother, I failed you. I love you.

No! Caracalla wanted to shout, but his throat and lips were not cooperating, You're here, we're together, that's all that matters.

 

I love you.

Notes:

To be clear, my intent is not "Caracalla is crazy and hears voices", it is "Geta's presence is a fixture in Caracalla's life and his influence persists after death".

I have no idea how the monkey's name is spelled either

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