Author's note: Soooo all you history buffs out there will probably HATE me for this, but honestly, after seeing that BBC documentary with michael sheen as Nero, can you blame me? Also take comfort that all of this is 100% fiction - except maybe for the part about using people as human torches. That is an actual thing that people think Nero did.

She was escorted to the palace when he wasn't there. It was much bigger than she had imagined. There were wealthy people gathered in the throne room, and servants dressed all in white attended to their every whim.

Everything looked so clean and bright that it seemed almost unreal. There were plates upon plates of fresh fruit laid out in big bowls and salted meat for guests to eat.

And in a corner of the room, a black iron cage – big enough to fit a small pig.

She is waiting for him in the garden – where they brought her, but she doesn't dare touch anything or move to explore. That is not why she is here. She is not a guest.

And the guards are watching.

When he does come, she feels relieved and apprehensive all at once.

There is an expectation that he will want to do more than just talk this time. But yet again, he defies her expectations.

Instead of looking into his eyes, she focuses on his hands. They look more like the hands of an artist than that of a ruler.

"Have you ever tried these peaches? They are only ripe in the spring you see."

They wander through his large garden, and he does not even look to see if she is going to run away (but there is nowhere to run to).

When he hands her the sunset-colored fruit, their hands touch and she suppresses the urge to make excuses and beg for mercy. It is not what she is feeling, but apologizing is a slave's religion. His eyes flicker strangely when she says nothing about it, something that hints at more.

He seems not so shy suddenly, as he tilts his head and looks at her like he'd like to devour every inch of her. But the look is soon gone, replaced by a good-natured smile.

"You are different from the others."

She still fights in the arena, just not as much. The rest of her time is spent at the palace. They are never seen together by the others, only the guards know this secret.

But he still hasn't touched her – other than to treat her wounds, and she cannot hold in the question any longer. It is the first time she has ever spoken to him. The garden is a strange reflection of his insides – the glimpses of something bigger under the surface. The flowers have started to wilt in her eyes, despite it being the height of summer.

"Why?"she asks, a simple question. And again, he looks at her like an equal. Like she has something that he's desperate to have.

"Because I need someone who understands."

She didn't know what he meant by that, not at first.

He always treated her well, when they were together. Always the same gentleness that took her off guard every single time. The same light shining in his pale green eyes, a contrast to her own dark – almost black ones.

Shy still, and always walking in her shadow rather than the other way around – as if she is there to protect him. Sometimes he would even ask her, beg her.

"You'll always be here? Won't you?" in that tone that is bordering on desperation, like the thought of her not being there is unthinkable.

She never replies, just smiles reassuringly. And usually, that is enough.

The fact that she never spoke to him at all did not seem to occur to him. He had a way of knowing her thoughts anyway – or maybe she was just that plain to read.

He even treated her well the first time she watched him kill somebody.

They always did this.

Pretending to sneak off, even though there were guards at every corner of the palace. Even though she was a slave and he the emperor – he had a way of making her forget all that. Like everything was just a game.

He would show her things – beautiful places, hidden caves in the mountains and tell tales of the gods that were special, forbidden. He was always so happy then, unlike when she first had met him in her cell. She thought it meant something.

But that time was different.

She had her own room in the palace by then, and would stay the night on occasion. The only difference was that her room had bars on the windows. But still, he had never come into that room to take something from her that she was not willing to give.

So it surprised her when she woke that night to discover him standing at the foot of her bed – staring at the floor with a strange and intense look. When he saw that she was awake, he froze – as if it was not his plan to wake her up. His face had lost all light, all hope.

"It didn't work, after all."he said, voice flat and emotionless.

Then he left the room without another word.

It was during an evening of festivities at the palace. Everything had been going well and she had not detected any of that strange, black mood from the night before. As a matter of fact, he acted like it had never happened at all.

She was nervous about being around other people. But he insisted on her being there.

"I want you to see something, later." he would whisper, eyes glinting with something happy and manic, and she didn't like it. But his hand was interlaced with hers, among all these people, and she thought that he loved her.

There was entertainment – singing and dancing, a couple of performers doing tricks. And then lastly, a thin, starved looking slave was led in.

And as he stood up, the music fell silent.

Nero may lead a life surrounded by beauty, but this is the exception. And she realizes, that behind his beautiful appearance, and appealing shy half-smiles, is a completely different person. The sound of bones breaking can be surprisingly loud, and screams can be nothing but silence.

The two slaves share a look, right before his head caves in against the marble floor.

That night, the cage is not gaping empty.

"Just because I have never participated in the games of the arena, does not mean that I do not lack the talent."

It is not the act itself that scars her, imprinting on her memory forever. It is with the childish, careless joy he breaks apart the mans face by tearing it asunder from the mouth – opening it wide, then wider, and wider – until the sides start to crack and a horrible, white line of fat and muscle peaks through. Finally parting all along the sides like the peel of a fruit, a wet and ripping sound – revealing a tongue lashing at all angles desperately for purchase, the eyes of the man going back into his head.

"We're just the same." he says under the stars later that night, his hand covering hers, only his still has traces of crimson underneath the fingernails.

She sighs and looks away.

It takes awhile for her to say anything. Because she has no idea what he will do.

His obsession with the dark is starting to scare her. She had heard rumours before, of other rulers before him. She has seen brutality, all kinds of it. Nothing can face her, or even shock her at all. But the difference with him is that he is not even aware, half the time.

Sometimes she catches him looking haunted, looking past his shoulder at empty spaces like something – or someone, is hunting him. Interlaces their hands and squeezes just a little too hard.

She does her best to keep him happy.

Not because she has to, but because she loves him.

Finally, she can't take it anymore. When he hands her an instrument for whipping horses intent on using it for a misbehaving servant, already dripping with blood and pus – she recoils from his grip and snarls.

"I said NO!"

the echo is a roar. His smile is gone in the blink of an eye – the mad laughter becoming a strange labored breathing as his pale eyes stare at her, not blinking. There are red flecks across his face, and one right underneath his right eye.

"Enough, he's had enough now." she tries in a calmer tone of voice.

"I thought we were having fun."

"No. Not like that – not like this."

She knows that the slap is coming, but does not lean her head away or tries to minimize the blow. He regrets it immediately afterwards, by what she can see – staring at his hand like it does not belong to him.

Still, she is punished.

The isolation could go on for months, if he was really angry.

She can hear peoples jaws cracking. Through the walls.

Does he want her to hear it?

Afterwards, she holds him close and feel him shiver like a leaf. He is sad – does not know why he does things like that. Why he needs it so badly. He tells her that he can't stand it. The fever that controls his mind, the haze of madness that is always there. They are the shadows always watching him.

In harsh whispers late at night, he tells her, but it still sounds like a question.

"You'll always be here. You won't leave me."

It is a sickness to love someone who treats you this way. She knows it, but what then, is the alternative? She is not ready to die.

He is a magician. He has made everyone she knows disappear. The people she grew up with, old sparring partners from the arena has gone missing, or been publicly tortured to death. Some of them he makes her watch as they burn, as he lights their shaved heads on fire, covered in tar. He gives them away, like party favors.

Beautiful, he says. He says the same thing about her hair, about her freckles.

The difference between them is that while she only kills to survive, he does it for sport.

She leaves huge, angry welts on his chest, his face bruised red and purple from when she punches him. But he likes it, laughs when she is allowed to hurt him this way. She's crying and he's pulling her into his lap on the floor, holding her close.

He never begs her forgiveness for anything, but sometimes she can see it – below everything terrible, a good part of him knows just how bad it is.

Her death finally comes- just a few months before his own.

The people have begun to turn love into hate, and the warm regard they once held is now vanished, into the thin morning fog. They want the emperor erased.

They are in the summer house when it happens. It is a beautiful day.

She is out in the field alongside it, bending down to pick grapes hanging from the vines. When she sees the guards sneaking up towards the house, she knows why they have come. And yet, she only stands there and watch them creep closer, and closer. Ignoring her, only interested in one target.

Feels nothing but calm as she knows what is about to happen. There is even a bit of joy at the prospect. There is no other way this could end.

Why then, does she drop her basket to the ground and runs to the house?

She is dying and she is a fool. That much is true.

But the emperor still lives, though his face has blood on it – not his.

There is a knife right below her heart, only the hilt sticking out. But the culprits are now gone. That is good enough.

The emperor himself is cradling her in his arms, then carrying her out into the sunlight, as if that is going to help. He's staggering though, knowing that whatever comes now is futile. Even though she is still there, she won't be for much longer.

She doesn't want his tears. He is too much of a monster to cry.

"You can't go. You can't leave!"he cries, loud enough to make the crows in the field take off. That makes her laugh, even though she is in no condition to laugh. But tears are in her eyes too.

"I wish you could stop me." she says, a gurgled laugh escaping her throat before going abruptly silent.