3. Little Brother, Little Bother
Date Written: January 3, 2019
Date Posted: March 30, 2019
Characters: The Roman Empire, Romano, Veneziano
Summary: Romano gets slightly jealous of the foundling that Rome just happened to come across.
Notes: References "Of Splendor and Riches", but there is no need to actually read that one-shot if you don't wish to.
He doesn't quite have a name yet; he is still just a foundation, an imagining of what might be. His people, loud and hard working, have yet to realize a vision of who they are. For now, he makes do with the titles that his supposed grandfather, the Great Roman Empire, bestows upon him.
Romano.
Of Rome.
There is a sense of something more within that name—a call to greatness, the inheritance of the heir apparent to the throne. The successor of a legend, of an empire. He is one heir out of many, the Roman Empire tells him fondly. But he's the one who has the bequeathed title, the power that the Roman Empire has displayed on many occasions. Of his many siblings of which he has met and fought on primitive battlefields, he is the greatest.
And then comes the little boy fished from the sea.
He is small, he is weak. Not at all fit to bear the title of Rome's successors. The young one can barely toddle around without tripping. His skin is far too fair, far too unused to the rough labor of land. During winter, the waters from his birthplace rise and try to steal him back.
Rome firmly grasps the young foundling in his arms, as the boy's hacking spews out water—water from a sea that has yet to be named and traversed. Water that nestles around his heart and fills his lungs.
The successor apparent remarks that the foundling will not last the century, if even that. The Roman Empire looks upon him with century old eyes, and, for a moment, the heir tenses for retribution. Instead, the much older Nation places a heavy hand upon his head and speaks with a wisdom and power that he has yet to witness in his kin.
"You may fight with your siblings, Romano. You make take their land, cut off their dynasties, steal their riches." The hand on his head grows heavier still. "But not today. He is weak and he may very well die before my time. But you may not feast on his writhing flesh or suck the marrow from his bones. He will be strong yet, just like you and the rest of your siblings, but for now, you will let him rest."
For a moment, the heir sulks in self-imposed isolation as his predecessor coos over the young one's cries.
.
.
.
Rome leaves him with the young child in his care. When prodded for answers, the Nation claims that he wants to check on little Romano's neighbors. Isn't that exciting? Perhaps I should bring back a little brother to make up for his absence? Or a little sister to play with? Romano kicks him in the shin, hard, and Rome ruffles his dark waves of hair.
"Be strong, little one."
And Romano pouts because the only little one here was obviously the squalling mess with barely anything to his name (which is funny because he has yet to have one).
Once the Roman Empire has gone, Romano remains.
It's under the cover of moonlight that Romano creeps towards the foundling's resting place. Seconds of observation become an hour's contemplation. As the violet blush of twilight melds seamlessly into the rosy duskiness of morning, Romano takes action. Slow at first, but with quick strides, he comes close to the foundling's resting spot. In a fit of shivers, the foundling had been swaddled in an assortment of blankets and spare cloths due to Rome's generosity.
Romano bites back a smirk. The blankets would serve another purpose.
It didn't take long for the young heir to grab the excess cloth and force the mass upon the young child's face. For a moment, nothing happens…
And then, he struggles. Desperate for air, desperate to live, the foundling fights. To Romano's amazement, the foundling manages to cuff his ear even when he is suffocating and blinded. Still, despite the foundling's strong struggles, Romano is older, more experienced. Within a few moments, the little boy swaddled in white ceases his struggles.
Dead. The little one is dead.
And Romano is satisfied.
Truthfully, he had not done so with malice. If the Roman Empire was so adamant in believing that the child is special, then the child must first prove himself. All Nations, regardless of perceived race or gender had one major ability in common. If belief in them by their chosen humans was strong enough, then death was merely a few minutes to a few day's rest—depending on the injuries inflicted. If belief in the foundling was strong enough, then he deserved to live.
It was easy as that.
A tense few minutes passes.
And the boy gasps for breath.
"Took you long enough," Romano mutters.
.
.
.
When Rome finally comes back from whatever war he had been waging, he is pleasantly surprised to see that his young charges are nestled together in a single cot. The elder holds an arm loosely on the waist of the younger. Truly, an adorable sight.
Rome was about to leave again when he heard a sleepy murmur.
"Nonno, his name is Felicianus…too lucky and too happy to be alive."
And the war-hardened warrior, the Great Roman Empire, smiles as he beholds little Felicianus, child of the sea. And then, he takes in the sight of his heir.
But.
Wait, no.
No, he has heirs.
And the Roman Empire smiles once more.