Chapter Text
My Empire at your feet
Chapter one: The Marriage of Alfred and Penelope Debling
The temple was bathed in gold, its towering columns catching the afternoon sun as guests poured in, each dressed in their finest silks and adorned with jewels meant to rival the brilliance of the gods themselves. Among the crowd stood Penelope, a vision of beauty in her intricately embroidered wedding robes, her face hidden beneath a veil that shimmered with gold thread. The weight of the diadem atop her head was nothing compared to the heaviness in her chest.
Beside her stood Alfred Debling, the Grecian empire’s most celebrated strategist. He radiated authority, his broad shoulders cloaked in a crimson mantle, his bearing proud and composed. He barely glanced at Penelope as the priest began the rites, his focus fixed forward as though she were an afterthought in this union.
To Alfred, this wedding was another step in a well-laid strategy. Marrying Penelope, the beautiful daughter of a wealthy and influential family, was a tactical move as precise as any battlefield maneuver. Her beauty and grace were merely ornaments to the true prize: her dowry, her connections, and the boost to his already stellar reputation.
For Penelope, the marriage had been decided without her consent or opinion. She had three sisters, two of them older, already married into aristocracy. It was simply her turn to get married. She had heard the whispers of envy from other noblewomen—how fortunate she was to marry a man like Alfred, a hero of the empire. But standing here, she felt neither fortunate nor envious, only resigned.
Alfred had barely spoken a dozen words to her since the ceremony. The feast was a blur of toasts and congratulations, none of which Penelope truly heard. She had sat beside Alfred at the long table, her hands folded in her lap, her face a polite mask. Alfred, for his part, basked in the praise of the guests over his achievements, his ambitions and the demure beauty of his wife, his smile tight but satisfied as he discussed his latest victory on the battlefield but not a word on the many virtues of his wife. It was simply enough for him that she had them.
That night, in the dim light of their chamber, Alfred approached her with all the tenderness of a soldier inspecting his gear. He spoke of duty, of expectations, and of his plans to leave for another campaign within weeks. He made no mention of her feelings, her fears, or her desires. It was clear that she was a part of his life, but only in the way a carefully chosen chess piece might be part of a game.
“You will do well, Penelope,” he said finally, his tone clipped as he shed his clothes. When she just stared at his naked form, still fully clothed, he raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Do you need help with that?” He gestured at her wedding chiton. This shook her into action as she quickly slipped out of it and sat gingerly on the bed again, not knowing what to do. She assumed he'd guide her through it, that he'd take her to the peaks of pleasure and show her the true meaning of “the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper” Homer was going on and on about.
Instead as her husband inserted himself inside her, almost stabbing her with his hardness over and over again, he lectured her about her duties.
“You will keep this household in order. You will honor my name. That is all I ask of you.”
What he did not say was what he expected in return: silence, obedience, and the image of perfection.
Weeks passed, then months, and Penelope quickly learned the rules of her marriage. Alfred was often absent, his time consumed by military campaigns and council meetings. When he was home, he expected his wife to perform her role flawlessly: hosting dinners, maintaining their estate, and presenting herself as the ideal Grecian noblewoman.
To the world, their marriage seemed a triumph. Penelope was the perfect complement to Alfred’s ambition, a beautiful ornament that reflected his success. She smiled when required, nodded at his stories of conquest, and ensured that every corner of their home spoke of their shared wealth and power.
But behind closed doors, there was a chasm between them.
Penelope had hoped, in some small way, to find companionship in her marriage. She had once believed Alfred’s intelligence might mirror her own, that his sharp mind could lead to stimulating conversations or shared ideas. But Alfred dismissed her intellectual pursuits as frivolous distractions.
When she had mentioned her passion for poetry once, Alfred had waved a hand dismissively. “The empire thrives on strength and strategy, Penelope, not words.”
And so, she retreated to her library, her only refuge in a life that felt increasingly hollow.
To Alfred, the marriage was going exactly as planned. Penelope was obedient, elegant, and silent—a model wife. She handled their household with efficiency and grace, never once questioning his absences or his ambitions.
He saw her not as a partner but as a symbol of his achievements, a reflection of his success on the battlefield and in the aristocracy. Her beauty complemented his victories, and her presence at his side during public events solidified his image as a man who had it all: power, wealth, and the perfect wife.
In truth, Alfred rarely thought about Penelope beyond her utility. His mind was consumed by strategy, by the next conquest, the next victory. The empire was expanding, and with it, so too was his legacy.
Penelope’s feelings, her desires, her loneliness—none of these mattered to Alfred. What mattered was that she maintained the illusion, that she played her part in his grand narrative without faltering.
Alone in the evenings, Penelope would sit by the fire in her library, a book in her lap, her thoughts drifting to the life she had imagined for herself before Alfred. She had once dreamed of a marriage built on mutual respect and shared passions, of a partner who would see her not just as a wife but as an equal.
Now, those dreams felt as distant as the stars.
But even in her quiet despair, there was a flicker of rebellion. She began to take solace in the books Alfred so easily dismissed. She read histories and philosophies, poetry and tales of distant lands. In these pages, she found worlds far richer and more meaningful than the one she inhabited.
She told herself that this small act of defiance, this refusal to let Alfred dictate the limits of her mind, was enough for now.
It was on one of these quiet evenings, as Penelope sat by the fire lost in a scroll of Homeric verse, that she heard the faint sound of horses approaching. Alfred had returned from another campaign.
As she set the scroll aside and rose to greet him, she wondered what trophies he would bring this time—a chest of jewels, a rare artifact, or perhaps a tale of another glorious victory.
She could not have imagined that this time, Alfred’s prize would be a living being—a man, a war prisoner who was reduced to slavery by her husband, who would challenge everything she thought she knew about herself, her marriage, and her place in the world.
The heavy oak doors of the Debling estate creaked open as Alfred stepped inside, the crimson of his military cloak streaked with dust and the scent of iron lingering on him. His return was marked by the usual flurry of activity—servants rushing to carry his belongings, his steward barking orders, and Alfred himself moving with the self-assured arrogance of a man who believed the house itself bowed to his presence.
Penelope watched from the top of the marble staircase, her posture composed and elegant as ever. She descended slowly, her silk chiton flowing like water with each step. As Alfred met her at the foot of the stairs, she extended her hand dutifully, which he clasped in a firm, almost mechanical grip.
“You’ve returned earlier than expected,” she said, her voice calm but devoid of excitement.
“The battle was swift,” Alfred replied, his tone clipped. “The Britannica forces were no match for us.”
Penelope nodded, her practiced smile barely concealing her disinterest in the details of yet another conquest.
“I’ve brought something of interest this time,” Alfred said, gesturing toward the entrance.
Only it was not something. It was someone.
Two soldiers entered, dragging a man between them. His wrists were bound with rough rope, his hair matted with dirt and blood. Though his clothes were tattered and his body bore the marks of battle and captivity, there was a defiance in his bearing. He stood as tall as his weakened state would allow, his piercing blue eyes scanning the room with contempt.
“This,” Alfred said, gesturing to the prisoner as though unveiling a prize, “is Colin of Britannica, one of their warriors and, it seems, a scholar. He was found with documents in their strange tongue. I thought it fitting he serves here, under your care.”
Penelope’s eyes widened slightly, her practiced mask slipping for a moment. “Under my care?”
“Yes,” Alfred said, dismissive. “He will be your personal servant. You’ve often complained of lacking adequate help in the library or during your… literary pursuits. Now you’ll have someone educated enough to assist you.”
Colin’s gaze flicked to Penelope then, his contempt sharpening. She met his eyes briefly, her own expression unreadable, before turning back to Alfred.
The arrangements were made swiftly, as they always were under Alfred’s command. Colin was taken to the servants’ quarters. Though his position as Penelope’s personal servant afforded him slightly better accommodations than the other slaves Alfred had captured during war, who were mostly chained and locked in the underground dungeons.
That evening, Penelope lingered in her library, the fire casting flickering shadows across the walls. She tried to focus on the scroll before her, but her thoughts kept drifting to the prisoner—Colin. His sharp, accusing eyes haunted her.
It was not guilt she felt, at least not entirely. It was something deeper, more unsettling: the recognition of his humanity.
When Colin finally appeared at the library door, escorted by a guard, Penelope straightened in her chair. His presence filled the room, not with deference or submission but with an almost palpable resistance.
“I am told I am to assist you,” Colin said, his voice low and edged with bitterness.
Penelope hesitated, unsure how to respond. She had not asked for this arrangement, yet here he was, another reminder of her husband’s conquests.
“I suppose introductions are unnecessary,” she said quietly, gesturing for the guard to leave.
When they were alone, Colin’s posture stiffened, his shackled hands resting awkwardly at his sides. “What is it you expect of me?” he asked, his tone challenging.
Penelope rose from her chair, moving to a small table where a pitcher of water and a goblet rested. She poured a drink and handed it to him. Colin hesitated, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, before taking the goblet and drinking deeply.
“For now,” she said softly, “I expect nothing more than your presence. Alfred has decreed that you assist me, and I will not question his orders.”
Colin’s lips curled at the mention of Alfred. “Of course. Obedience to the conqueror.”
Penelope flinched, the words striking her more deeply than she cared to admit. She met his gaze, her own steady despite the tumult in her heart. “I have no wish to conquer anyone.”
Colin didn't say anything. Just smirked. Penelope knew it wasn't a joyous smile. And yet she couldn't stop herself from watching the curve of his lips. He was handsome, undeniably so. He reminded her of all the melancholic heroes from homerian ballads. And Penelope knew she was in trouble.
The initial days of Colin’s service were marked by silence and tension. He shadowed Penelope in her library, assisting with her correspondence and organizing her collection of scrolls and codices. Penelope found his intellect undeniable; though he barely spoke, his efficiency and attention to detail were remarkable.
But it was his defiance that intrigued her most. Colin never bowed his head or softened his gaze. He obeyed her commands, but his every movement seemed to carry the weight of his resentment.
Penelope, for her part, felt an unspoken tension growing between them. She often caught herself watching him as he worked, wondering about the life he had led before his capture. Who had he been? What had he lost? Did he have a wife? Or a lover, perhaps?
One evening, as she sat at her desk writing, she noticed Colin staring at a scroll she had left open on the table. It was a philosophical treatise, one of her favorites.
“You can read this?” she asked, breaking the silence.
Colin hesitated before answering. “Yes.”
Penelope leaned back in her chair, studying him. “I was told Britannica had its own written language. You’re well-versed in ours?”
“I had a tutor,” he said, his tone clipped.
“And philosophy? Is that a subject you studied as well?”
Colin’s jaw tightened. “Once.”
“Would you like to read it?” she asked, gesturing to the scroll.
He hesitated again, as though weighing the risks of accepting her offer. Finally, he nodded. Penelope watched as he stepped forward, his movements cautious, and took the scroll in his hands.
For the first time, she saw something other than anger in his expression: a flicker of curiosity, of longing.
Over the following weeks, the library became a place of quiet, hesitant connection. Colin’s resentment remained, but his curiosity about Penelope’s literary pursuits began to overshadow his bitterness. Penelope, for her part, found herself drawn to his sharp mind and the glimpses of vulnerability he tried so desperately to hide.
But Penelope saw him. She could see how oppressing it was for him, to live a life of servitude where disobedience was punished by humiliation and how that humiliation was chipping away fragments of his pride one tiny piece at a time.
She felt it was very inhumane to keep slaves. But what was she supposed to do? She herself was a prisoner in this gilded cage, with no escape in sight.